Rhiannon
by FerryBerry
Summary: Future. Based on prompts submitted on Tumblr. It's Rachel's wedding day again - and history repeats itself.
1. Scars

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. All belongs to _Glee_ writers and creators.

 **Scars**

It was Rachel's wedding day again, and everything was perfect this time. She and Jesse had decided on taking their vows in Lima, and they'd even managed to reserve the William McKinley High School auditorium and gymnasium for the event. They'd be getting married up on the stage that had seen so many of the changes in Rachel's life, with her friends and family watching in the audience, before they all gathered to the gymnasium for dancing, karaoke, cake, bouquet throwing, garter tossing - and Jesse had promised to personally see to it that every single one of their guests arrived safely. Especially Quinn.

Quinn had, after waffling on her RSVP for weeks, finally agreed to come and stand with Rachel, alongside Kurt and Mercedes. It was just another of those things that was making this wedding day perfect - and making Rachel nervous.

While not for a moment did Rachel consider _not_ sending Quinn an invitation to her wedding - they might not have been as close as they once had, but she still considered her to be one of the most important people in her life - the moment she had slipped the heart and star decorated envelope into the big blue mailbox outside her and Jesse's twenty story apartment building on the Upper East Side, fear seized her joints. Quinn, coming to Rachel's wedding, weeks in the hospital, months in a wheelchair, a lifetime of checkups to ensure the pressure in her spine maintained its equilibrium and that her consistent exercise regime was doing its job preventing atrophy and blood clots. Rachel had scrabbled - uselessly - to get the envelope back. Of course, the damn things were _designed_ to make sure people couldn't get into them, and so Rachel spent the next few weeks in agony, until Jesse swore to her on their first Tony win - yet to be achieved, but well within reach - that he would personally escort Quinn to their wedding if need be.

Soothed, Rachel then had only to suffer through Quinn's indecision. There was only one excuse offered, though Rachel pried and pulled at her via email, text messages, Facebook - Quinn wasn't sure she could get off of work for the event. And because Quinn had turned out to be such a very busy woman after Yale and another quiet breakup with Noah, Rachel was assured that she wasn't hesitating over something like PTSD from the last wedding. She never would've been able to nag at her had that been the case.

Quinn had, in the intervening years, set aside acting after starring in a few low budget plays for the life of an entrepreneur. She had started up her own website for burgeoning talent - mainly, teenagers looking to become stars in their own right. Singers, dancers, actors - they could upload their videos to the website for criticism and tips from recruiters from schools like Juilliard, the Yale School of Drama, and of course, NYADA, as well as the already successful and famous - Quinn had even had Rachel offering advice on occasion, when she was between plays - and most of all, from agents, who would sign on the most promising. Quinn, of course, made this work so well she already had a roster of agents working for her, her own list of stars she worked with personally, and as a result, she spent almost all of her time traveling, scheduling tours, and attending to all the other little nitty gritty jobs the head of an ever-growing company needed to do.

Rachel couldn't have been prouder of her. But she also needed Quinn on that stage with her, as badly as she'd needed her at the altar senior year. Quinn had always served as a bastion of strength, one she was definitely going to need on her second wedding day, because in spite of Jesse's reassurances that Quinn, at least, would make it to the wedding perfectly intact, the rest of it was going too well. Her fathers were even chatting like old friends at the bar they'd set up in the gymnasium for the rehearsal dinner. The gym looked beautiful, with pristine white sheets hanging over the ceiling lights to dim them, each tied to a wooden pavilion spiraled with green vines and white roses, and there was a vase of yellow roses at each white table set before the dance floor area, where most of their friends and family had taken to swaying to another of Santana's renditions of Valerie.

Rachel was waiting for something to happen. The pavilion to come crashing down - they'd barely fit it in and had had to set it up inside the gym in the first place. What if it was shoddy craftsmanship? Her fathers to turn on each other. The roses to wilt and die and fall off the vines they'd been so carefully strung on. Her worrying made it quite difficult to enjoy the festivities and Jesse was growing weary of telling her everything was fine - she didn't blame him. But his reinforcements either weren't paying any mind or weren't there. Quinn hadn't arrived yet.

And Rachel was feeling queasy with champagne on an empty stomach - she hadn't been able to eat anything earlier, nerves and worry that she would somehow inflate beyond the boundaries of her Kurt Hummel designed wedding dress if she ingested anything other than the occasional beverage. She laid a kiss on Jesse's tired cheek and smiled for him as she excused herself to the ladies' room. Waiting for the white sheets to come crashing down from their ties to turn all her guests into ghosts was proving to be too much. She needed a breather.

The halls echoed each clack of her heels in the eerie dark of the school - she preferred to remember it filled, bustling, bright with potential, even if it was the middle of summer now, so she hurried her steps and arrived at the girls' bathroom and Rachel almost wasn't even surprised to find Quinn there in front of a mirror.

Quinn. Half-naked, covered only by a tan broomstick skirt and a white lace bra.

Quinn. Golden hair cascading around her strong shoulders.

Quinn. Porcelain skin for miles, broken up only by the silvery shine of scars.

Scars. They were cut into the paleness of Quinn's skin like morbid lines of glitter, only seen from a certain angle, a certain light. And from here, Rachel could see them perfectly. On the point of her shoulder, a small jagged mark. Across her stomach, her long muscles bunched with tension, several slashes, all different in size, but all shaped like sideways teardrops, large at the end, narrowing to a point. And along the bottom line of her ribs, a long, even cut.

Rachel's joints froze. She hadn't felt her insides curl like this in years. Felt her stomach turn in on itself, her heart try to squeeze up and die, and her lungs push air out to wither like popped balloons.

The feeling was only compounded when she noticed what Quinn was doing. The white peasant top she'd had on was slung into the sink, full with water, water stained red. The skirt, too, was clinging to Quinn's thigh on the other side, dyed deep crimson. Quinn was covered in the color, scarlet practically from head to toe, and where she wasn't, she was pale. Paler than a ghost, looking ahead at nothing, no one. She hadn't even looked at Rachel standing there in the open door, not once.

Rachel didn't get a chance to pull her notice, to ask what happened, to run to Quinn's side, because the door was pulled out of her grasp, and a tall man in a navy uniform said, "Pardon me. Quinn Fabray?" with a pair of handcuffs in his hands.

Quinn turned toward him slowly. Her eyes were empty. "Yes."

Rachel's insides twisted when the officer stepped forward, and then there were two more coming into the bathroom, too, and she heard her friends behind them, wondering what was going on, but Quinn didn't say a word. Not when the officer hooked her wrists with handcuffs, not when he said, "You're under arrest for the murder of Russell Fabray. You have the right to remain silent…"

She didn't even look like she knew what was going on.

But Rachel did, and Rachel flung herself forward, to get more silver off of Quinn, and cried up at the arresting officer with the calm blue eyes, "What are you doing?! Why are you arresting her, what's going on? Quinn didn't do anything, she wouldn't hurt anybody - she would never hurt anybody!"

Rachel pulled at Quinn's wrists, at the handcuffs in a vain attempt to pull them off. Quinn's skin felt as cold as the metal, clammy.

He looked sympathetic, but removed her hands from his suspect and said, "Please, ma'am, I have to read her rights."

"It's okay, Rachel."

Quinn's voice slid a knife to encourage the bleeding of Rachel's heart. It was so distant; Quinn couldn't possibly know what was happening.

"Quinn, you're in shock - she's in shock! Can't you see, she doesn't know anything!"

"Ma'am." The arresting officer was sterner this time. "Let us do our job."

Rachel wound up, the screaming in her head twisting into violence that made her want to lunge at him, that sent scathing words and a mention of discrimination and her star power and lawyers and how Russell Fabray had been an awful man anyway who hurt Quinn shooting to her head, but before they could make it out her mouth, Quinn's hazel eyes were staring into her, and the fog had cleared from them. Tears sprang to Rachel's, her rage deflated, and she quavered on the spot.

"It's okay," Quinn said again, clearly this time, blood streaked down her cheek and matting her golden hair, but Quinn was a bastion of strength again and Rachel breathed out.

And then Quinn was gone, taken away from her, and Rachel crumpled.


	2. Imprisoned

**Imprisoned**

Otto Graham finished reading Lucy Quinn Fabray her rights down the hall of the old high school, away from the accusing eyes of the surprisingly imposing little brunette back in the bathroom. He'd never quite felt comfortable in the ladies' room anyway, and the shrieking panic in her voice turned his stomach with guilt. He hated performing arrests in front of family members and friends; they didn't see a criminal being removed from their lives, they saw a brother, a sister, mother, father, best friend. He wondered, however briefly, what the woman in her long yellow dress saw in Quinn Fabray. Outside of radiant beauty, that is.

Lamb and Adams, who had accompanied him in case of trouble, were having difficulty keeping their eyes off of her, half-naked with plump, firm breasts encased in white lace nearly the shade of her skin, the expanse of a lithe stomach carved by solid muscle, much the same as her back, which jutted only with the bones of her shoulder blades, the firm line of an ivory jaw, evenly designed nose dipping down over a pair of pink, pursed lips, and the brow, sculpted over the goldest hazel eyes he'd ever seen, pinning their path with the quiet intensity of a predator - and that reminded Graham quite well that the object of their admiration was also a suspected murderer with blood all over the right side of her body.

Fabray didn't seem terribly concerned about any of this. Or anything else, for that matter. She followed his guiding hand through the crowd of gasping, formal-wear-clad guests with not a glance to either side, and when he finished reading her rights and asked if she understood, she simply said, "I understand," without looking at him.

Graham had arrested one too many perpetrators who thought they were above the law, who thought that, in spite of being arrested, they would merely explain, lie their way out of it, or that there was still no way the police had anything on them. There was an air of smugness surrounding those types; they strutted to the car, thrust their chin in the air, and smirked to answer every question. Fabray had none of that, and Graham liked her for it in spite of himself. He asked Lamb and Adams to watch her while he retrieved a blanket from the squad car, wrapping it securely around Fabray's nearly naked top upon his return. Lamb and Adams looked abruptly away, and Graham resumed leading Fabray to the backseat of his squad car.

The old high school was already being swamped by more officers, and with them came cameras, gawkers, and Graham told his partner, Miller, to move it. The chief had already warned them after a witness, a neighbor, said they thought Fabray had come back to attend a wedding at the high school, about the risk of paparazzi - a celebrity wedding, apparently. And although he hadn't had any trouble with the camera-wielding walking harassment suits during the arrest, he didn't want any to start now, either. Miller seemed to agree with his assessment - she had whipped them out of the parking lot before he could give her a second nudge.

Fabray sat silent for the duration of their journey down to the station, so it surprised Graham when a low voice beckoned from beside him, walking her up to the main doors, "I'd like to have an attorney present, please."

Smart, he thought, and brought her right away to the phones, where she spent several minutes speaking with a woman named Diane, and though Graham could hear a shrill voice even standing a respectable distance away, Fabray remained calm, collected, until she had extracted a promise that a defense attorney would be at the Lima Police Department as soon as possible. She turned to him as soon as he had hung up, peering up at him expectantly, and had it not been for the blood stain, brown - drying now, collected on her cheek, he thought she might have been the classiest suspect he'd ever taken in.

He picked up his phone while she sat in the decrepit chair by his desk, legs crossed and hands folded over one knee. He tilted his head at her while he spoke to forensics, to come down and scrape a blood sample off of her before processing, and she stared back until he hung up, and then she said, "Thank you for the blanket."

Graham wasn't sure whether he'd just met a sociopath the likes of Hannibal Lecter or the calmest innocent person he'd ever arrested.

He called Miller to clean her up and provide her with some different clothes after forensics had finished, while he went to check on how the investigation was coming. For some reason, he hoped this was a case of innocent.

#

Things didn't look promising for Quinn. Or, as her new defense attorney, Rick McCormack so delicately put it, "You're fucked."

After being processed, all her clothes, her purse, the contents of her car taken in and jotted down, presented to her in an inventory list she'd had to sign, being photographed from every direction, taking her fingerprints, confirming her actual address in New York City, New York, her childhood address in Lima, Ohio, where the murder had taken place, her date of birth, her reason for visiting Lima, her height, weight, a million other details that felt so…tiresome - Quinn had been put in a lineup to be picked out by a witness. A witness who picked her out almost immediately. The charge from the prosecutor came just as swiftly afterward. Second degree murder.

At the arraignment, Quinn pleaded not guilty. Rick asked for a bail hearing. The judge denied and said that she would be sent immediately to Ohio Reformatory for Women in Marysville to await trial.

Quinn had one last meeting with Rick before the transport would arrive, in which he explained in his blunt, unhappy way that there were simply no other suspects and a witness put her at the scene and that meant no leeway. They had practically already stamped guilty on her file and set it aside. Rick didn't seem to think she understood the weight of her situation, that there was only so much he could do for her. But Quinn understood.

Everyone - well, at least everyone she had come into contact with in the last three days, consisting primarily of police officers and Rick - kept giving her that look. That puzzled, nearly frightened look as she took bad news after bad news with everlasting calm. She thought, once or twice, of pulling a temper tantrum or a host of tears out of her acting repertoire to get them to stop. But there was no point. The damage had already been done.

Russell Fabray - her father. He'd been murdered. Bludgeoned to death. His skull smashed in with one of her prized cheerleading trophies. And a witness, a neighbor, had seen Quinn walking out of the house covered in his blood. According to Rick, there was no other sign that anyone else had been there. He asked at least a hundred times if she was sure she hadn't killed him.

"We can spin it if you did. Self-defense. The guy kicked you out when you were sixteen, history of alcoholism, abuse," he'd said, a fire lit in his eyes.

Quinn stared and said, again, "I didn't kill him."

Truthfully, Quinn still didn't remember much about that day. Only what she'd told the police and Rick. Over and over and over again.

After spending weeks on end in indecision over whether or not to attend Rachel's wedding, she hadn't actually gotten around to buying a wedding gift for her, so she'd headed out first thing in the morning for Columbus where she could have something sent to Rachel's penthouse apartment after her honeymoon and perhaps find something small for the day of the wedding, too. It had taken most of her day to find the perfect gifts, but she was too pleased with her selection to be irritated by the waste, time she could've spent working, or visiting with friends, Mercedes. She'd ordered takeout on her way home, enough for the family, her mother and father both, and entered the back way so her mom's new Dachshund would only escape into the yard if the little bastard slipped past her. And then she remembered falling in something warm, sticky, unable to catch herself in time, and there -

Quinn had to stop herself every time. To try to remember what she saw. It was as if something had climbed into her body and twisted around her brain, and it had been spreading ever since, latching itself to every nerve in her body, so that when she thought of that… _thing_ lying there on the floor in a pool of thick, coalescing blood… It squeezed and her head throbbed and she couldn't think or move or breathe and the world felt sharp, prickling on her skull and down her spine and new but familiar fear seized her then -

Graham had put a wet, cold washcloth on the back of her neck during questioning, the first time she told him all this, and he urged her to remember. She had the impression from his gentle face, his concerned eyes, that he might believe her. Rick simply told her she needed to remember everything, and the only thing that kept her from heading into that dark place, the one she'd settled into after seeing him there on the floor, was to close her eyes and instead envision Rachel, as she had last seen her. Disbelieving, outraged, red-faced, arms flailing, grasping Rachel, in her sweet sunshine gown with the v dipping at her cleavage and her Godiva eyes wide as saucers, her thick hair in ringlets around her neck and face, grazing her tan, soft skin. And she was comforted. Rachel believed her.

Or at least, she had, in that moment, not understood why Quinn was being arrested. Had not believed her capable of doing anyone any harm. Who knew what she believed now, three days later, with new information and newscasts.

Quinn tried not to think about that, twisting the sleeves of her new construction worker orange uniform. Rachel might be the only thing she had to hold onto in the new world ahead of her. Prison.


	3. Tattoos

**Tattoos**

Rachel rubbed her thumb against the inside of her wrist, the tendons bundled and aching for relief from the repetitive motion. The skin there was burning red. But she couldn't seem to stop, at least not until Jesse slid his hand into hers, encasing her body from behind with his warm, solid frame. She leaned into him, tried to smile, and squeezed his fingers between hers. Her skin stung with relief.

It had been a week since Quinn was arrested, right in front of Rachel's eyes. The confusion of that evening had followed her since, tearing up her gut and eating at her sanity until she was left standing in front of a dusty window, watching cars speed down the narrow road below her, compulsively rubbing circles on her wrist and gnawing on her bottom lip until it ached even at the soothing touch of her tongue.

There had been news reports, of course. Rachel could hardly bear to watch them, because they all seemed to her obsessed with ripping Quinn's life to shreds.

'Quinn Fabray, CEO of Little Star dot com, was arrested Friday night at Broadway sweethearts', Rachel Berry and Jesse St. James, rehearsal dinner for their wedding. Fabray was found drenched in the blood of her victim after fleeing the scene of the crime at her childhood home in Lima, Ohio. The victim? Her father, Russell Fabray, who family members say she had a rough relationship with. At sixteen, Fabray became one of many high school girls who've found themselves in trouble, after which her father showed some tough love - and kicked her out - and over a year later, back in the family fold, Fabray experienced what some called a psychotic break - '

This was usually when Rachel had to turn the TV off, before she wound up throwing the remote through the screen. Tough love. Psychotic break. They were on Russell's side, through and through, with no consideration that Quinn might actually be innocent. And the police weren't any different.

Rachel had demanded Jesse take her to the police station only minutes after Quinn was taken away. It took them a few minutes to get through the fast-arriving newscasters, the ones who recognized them or knew of the wedding asking how they knew Quinn, what their relationship was, would this change their wedding plans - and it did. Although they didn't announce it on the spot, Jesse later allowed that the wedding was postponed. Rachel didn't bother correcting him. To say that she couldn't possibly go through with the wedding without Quinn - Jesse wouldn't understand. So she let him think postponed was the correct word - and, if the police came to their senses and released Quinn, it really would be, but the possibility was looking less and less likely - and kept trying to see Quinn.

The first night, the officer at the front desk simply said they had to come during visitors' hours. Rachel had come back first thing the next morning, paced a hole in the floor while she waited for visitors' hours, and then approached. A different officer sat at the desk, but he told her to come again tomorrow, that Quinn was in interrogation all day. She said she would wait and informed every shift change, every new officer, that she wanted to see Quinn when she was available. None of them called her up.

The next day, she wasn't alone, however. A stocky woman with middle-aged jowls in shoulder pads and a grey Versace pantsuit and Prada shoes, only a little taller than Rachel, sat beside a young blonde in square black glasses and comfortable but no less stylish travel clothes; the latter busily tapped away on an iPad while the older woman repeatedly stood to demand visitation to Quinn. On her second trip and return, Rachel gathered the courage to speak to them and found out the middle-aged woman was Quinn's corporate lawyer, Diane Slattery, and the blonde was her administrative assistant, Ellen Church. Ellen spoke not a word, but peered over her glasses and smiled once at Rachel in greeting. Then her eyes went back to her iPad.

Diane was about as loquacious. She sat clicking her teeth together for most of the day, but Rachel could hardly blame her for the lack of conversation. She was hardly the bubbly, rambling girl she usually was, and spent most of _her_ day rubbing a sore into her wrist while thinking - sitting next to these two women - she no longer knew very much of Quinn's life. And had she ever?

Rachel recalled a time when she felt that she knew everything about Quinn's life in the present, if nothing else. When they had become friends their senior year of high school, Quinn had told her - everything, really. She was considering going to Yale for their drama program; she got into Yale; she was attending physical therapy sessions with Joe; Joe seemed to like her. So Quinn hadn't been the one to tell her about running for prom queen with Finn. It had been a small oversight in a world of knowing Quinn's life and Quinn had more than made up for that when she crowned Rachel queen herself.

It had been one of the brightest points in Rachel's life, those months - and the darkest, after Quinn's accident - and she had taken the same attitude she'd had toward Quinn then for every interaction they'd shared in the years since, no matter how often they spoke with one another at the time. But it wasn't exactly the same, she realized now, with Diane and Ellen sitting next to her. Diane and Ellen probably knew more of Quinn's day to day life than Rachel did, in fact, and in the midst of worrying her skin to death, Rachel felt the stab of jealousy and the weight of regret.

The latter still hung on her even now, dragging her heart to the ground with fear, confusion, while Jesse kissed her neck. She felt a minor tickle of a response down her middle.

"You know, we could be staring at the Mediterranean right now…" he rumbled in her ear. "Making love on a white sanded beach…"

In her younger days, Rachel would have wondered how on earth Jesse could be thinking of sex and happiness and their cancelled - postponed - honeymoon at a time like this. But she had learned over the years that the world and its feelings did not revolve around her own. If it did, the sky would be pouring down with rain, pelting the earth in retribution for such a great wrong as Quinn Fabray in jail - in prison. Her visits to the jail had had to end two long days ago, when they finally informed her that Quinn had been transferred after her arraignment hearing. Diane and Ellen had exchanged some rather colorful mutterings about small towns and packed for Marysville. Rachel had thought to do the same until she discovered the town was only an hour out of Lima - and each visitor could come only once a month. Once a month was about how often Rachel saw Quinn now, but restricted - Rachel felt it was a lifetime. But she would have to hold onto those visits she was allowed with an iron grip.

"I can't leave Quinn like this," she heard herself muttering.

She felt more than heard Jesse sigh against her. "Her trial probably won't be for months. Maybe a couple years." The question was implied: Are you going to sit around Lima until she's free?

Rachel glanced down at her wrist. Her first tattoo, the one on her abdomen, the one memorializing her first love, had been etched in on a drunken night with Kurt. And so was the second, drawn in silver and gold lines on the inside of her wrist. A tiara, a crown, requested the night Santana spilled the beans about Quinn stacking the votes at prom.

"I'm going to call the reformatory again, see if their line is still busy."

Jesse let her go.

#

"Who is that supposed to be?"

Quinn hadn't heard a word from her cellmate in the week since she'd bunked up. Mostly grunts had followed Quinn's quiet greetings, and so she'd stopped speaking to the woman period. She was about Quinn's age, but taller, nearly covered in tattoos that stood out against her chocolate-colored skin. Her short hair was done up in corn rows, and Quinn could tell she used to have plenty of piercings. The guard who'd put Quinn in with her had said her name was Carol Burns, but most of the inmates seemed to call her Jaws. Apparently, she'd bitten her ex-husband's ear off when he hit her. Quinn had promptly decided, hearing that, that she'd been wise not to push any sort of conversation. Not that she was getting it much from anyone else, either.

The guards didn't tend to engage, particularly with a high-security inmate like herself, or at least not in any meaningful way. It was only, 'Turn around and back up' to take her cuffs off or put them on through the bars, or 'Wake up call,' or 'Lights out.' But they were harmless, if abrupt.

The other inmates had taken an immediate disliking to Quinn. A cheerleader, Yale graduate, CEO of her own company, rich, skinny, blonde bitch in amongst a bunch of women from the wrong side of the tracks. Rich Bitch, Skinny Bitch - and a lot of other, more colorful names - had become her monikers almost the minute she arrived. Quinn tried to pretend Santana was sniping them at her, to tamp down her natural temper and her pride. It wouldn't do any good to fight. To lay low, that was what she had to do.

So she spent most of her time in her cell, taking advantage of the exercise program, or reading the few outdated books in the literacy room. And if, in the lunch room, someone shoved her aside for another scoop of mashed potatoes, or someone grabbed a biscuit off her plate and growled in her ear, letting the crumbs they were chowing on dribble on her shoulder, "You weren't gonna eat this, were you, Skinny Bitch," or if in the literacy room, someone popped the book out of her hands, or in the exercise ring, they shoved, knocked her down, sneered and snickered, or in the yard, they flicked their cigarette ashes her way - Quinn just kept on walking, thinking of Rachel. Her interminable patience with the bullies at their school. How if she was slushied, she picked up and went at it the very next day, smiling. How if Quinn and her friends left a hundred snarky messages on her MySpace videos, Rachel turned the other cheek, and went after her dream, and waited for Quinn to come around.

It didn't seem to stop them any, this tactic, but Quinn could outlast them, with her own strength and Rachel's combined. She just had to get through to her trial. And hope the police found something.

In the meantime, Quinn had to deal with her cellmate and with the odd flush burning in her cheeks. She had been straightening her mattress, felt the brief brush of cool air on her lower back - and her cellmate, Jaws, the woman covered in tattoos of knives and flames, had seen her Ryan Seacrest tattoo.

Quinn let her arms drop. "Oh. Ryan Seacrest. It was just a dumb high school phase; I was trying to be ironic."

The explanation seemed unnecessary - Jaws just looked at her blankly, as if Quinn had spoken in Latin. Sensing no further conversation was forthcoming, Quinn turned to hop up on her mattress and pick up the book she'd borrowed from the literacy room until lights out - but Jaws surprised her again.

"If they see that, they're gonna kick your ass."

The thought hadn't occurred to Quinn before. Having a pansy-ass tattoo, as Santana would put it, offering more reason for them to shove her around. And it would. These women with dragons eating snakes on their biceps.

"I could make it look like a skull," Jaws added, at length.

Quinn glanced back at her, eyebrows rising. Jaws - Carol - fiddled with the ink she'd drawn out, seemingly from nowhere, turning it in her hands and peering up at Quinn from beneath long, curly lashes. She almost seemed embarrassed, too. Quinn felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

"You could?"

Carol nodded, head ducked.

"Could you make a snake tongue come out of it?" Quinn prompted then, playfully.

Carol smiled in the same faint, resistant way Quinn had.


	4. Jigsaw

**Jigsaw**

Something wasn't quite right. Graham had been over the file, thick with information now, on the Fabray case a hundred times. Every time he had a break between patrol or a 911 call or a court date, he sat at his desk flipping through the stacks of papers, scratching the fuzz growing along his jaw, and downing another cup of caffeine to get him through the night shift. He'd been at it for days, and the words on the pages were beginning to blend together, becoming meaningless shapes and figures he had memorized. He knew what they said before he even read them. But still he read.

Coroner's report on Russell Fabray's body: death by bludgeoning, other injuries consistent with self-defense, dead on arrival, time of death: approximately 7 pm.

Blood splatter report: spray on suspect's clothes consistent with bludgeoning, shoe imprints in blood match suspect's shoe pattern, spray on walls consistent with height and size of suspect and victim.

Blood analysis report: blood DNA sample from suspect's clothes match for Russell Fabray.

Fingerprint report: finger print match for suspect on murder weapon/cheerleading trophy.

Witness testimony: neighbor saw the suspect enter the home at approximately 7 pm, heard arguing, saw suspect leave for WMHS at 8 pm, picked out suspect in a lineup. No other witnesses.

Scene on arrival report: victim dead on arrival, lying prostrate on kitchen tile floor/inside back entryway, no sign of forced entry, position consistent with fall, murder weapon/cheerleading trophy two feet away from victim, Thai takeout food and bag strewn three feet away, toaster, can opener, drying rack on floor less than a foot from victim, consistent with signs of a struggle.

It all read the same thing. Lucy Quinn Fabray arrived home, bludgeoned Russell Fabray to death after an argument, and left the scene for the rehearsal dinner. But Graham was bothered nonetheless. For one thing, Fabray hadn't just had the spray of a bludgeoning on her clothes - she'd been drenched from head to toe. Consistent with her story that she'd slipped. She might've slipped after she killed him, but then there was the Thai takeout food, another detail fitting with her story and though she might've simply been the most effective liar he'd ever met, mixing solid truths with lies to create a believable narrative, Graham didn't buy it.

He remembered too well the look on Fabray's face when he'd asked her to recall what she saw that evening when she walked into the kitchen and fell in her father's blood. Her skin had grown even paler, but when he touched her hand, she felt feverish, and her eyes had gone wide and dilated with the shock of someone who had seen something that had changed them. Forever. He'd seen it more than once in his time, after taking the testimony of a woman who had been raped, after his once partner saw another cop shoot a boy only six years old. You couldn't fake that kind of horror, Graham knew, but when he brought it up to the chief, asked him to review the interview tapes, Matthews only reminded him that Fabray had gone to Yale to study drama and said to let it go, he should be happy - it was open and shut.

But Graham couldn't shake the niggling feeling, the nagging at the back of his mind. He'd spoken to the blood splatter analyst, the coroner - he'd spoken to everyone personally, they all said the same thing. Even when he spoke to more neighbors, they told him that the Fabrays were an uppity family, kept to their own crowd, but that there had been trouble in paradise more than once. The youngest daughter - Graham made a note to find the elder and speak to her - had gotten 'knocked up' at sixteen and, being a religious, church-going man, Russell Fabray had kicked her out, only to be kicked out himself after he was caught cheating by his wife. Divorce proceedings had begun, but then the family seamlessly melted back together, and aside from Fabray 'going punk' for a few months, that was all the neighbors knew of their drama.

Graham intended to find out more about this 'going punk' phase, what the media were calling a 'psychotic break,' but he had yet to get in touch with the older sister and it seemed any time he tried to spare for conducting more interviews and more investigation into Fabray's life and this murder, he was redirected toward something more pressing, or shut down. Case solved. She killed him. Whether it was unusual behavior or she had a history of mental illness or her family or friends thought she did it or not - it didn't matter. All the evidence pointed to Quinn Fabray.

Graham didn't like it. There had to be someone, something that proved his instincts right. Miller had questioned the mother, Judy Fabray, but so far all he'd been able to get out of his partner about the interview was that the woman was distraught, like they all were. His mind flickered briefly to the woman in the yellow gown - Rachel Berry, Broadway starlet, he had learned from Lamb. He had left a message with Fabray's attorney, McCormack, that he should get in touch with her, but perhaps Graham should drop by her hotel suite himself…

"Are you still on that?" Miller interrupted, and her chair squeaked in protest when she plopped herself down in it across from him, swiping her upper lip of evidence of her coffee addiction.

He glanced at her. "It bugs me."

"All right. Shoe prints: hers, finger prints: hers, blood: his - "

"I know the evidence," he ground out, and she stopped for another sip from her Styrofoam cup. "But something's not right. You saw the interview."

"Crazy people believe what they're saying," Miller dismissed.

"Don't tell me you're buying into this 'psychotic break' crap."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Mama said she tried to sabotage the lady she gave her baby up to, like, a month after she went through a massive personality change. Dressing all black, pink hair dye, older boyfriend, hanging with a miscreant crowd."

"That proves she was a teenager, not psychotic."

"She tried to steal her baby back, spent months seeing a therapist."

Graham grew interested at this. He sat up. "What was he treating her for?"

"Post partum depression."

"Hardly crazy then, and hardly the kind of thing that leads to murder," he said, with new fervor.

"Women with post partum kill their babies all the time," Miller dismissed.

"Did he finish treating her?"

"If you mean, was she cured, he seemed to think so," she allowed. "Said she broke her ennui, had a new lease on life, but she was probably just going through a manic stage and he was mistaken."

Graham ignored that last part - "Was she ever violent?"

He recognized her standard sign of impatience, her thumb tapping her cup at a rapid pace, but she answered anyway, "Not that he or Mama said."

"Then why would she just up and murder her dad?" He raised both eyebrows.

Miller was unimpressed. "Because people are crazy, Graham. Who knows, it could've been a million things that made her snap. The news stations seem to be going with the years later revenge story."

"News stations are full of shit," he dismissed, "we need to find out more about her. Find her friends, talk to her family - "

"No, you do," she scoffed, and when his lips dropped, she added, "I'm not touching this one. Chief told us to let it go."

Graham sighed, his enthusiasm dropping away with his back, and he leaned heavily into his chair. It squeaked angrily. "All right, but could you just - bat some ideas around with me here? Just for the sake of argument."

Her thumb tapped, lips twisted, and he added, "Please."

She sighed, and he knew he'd won.

"Okay. Let's say Fabray was telling the truth," he started, rubbing his palms together as he leaned over the files with new eyes. "She leaves home ten am to go to Columbus for a wedding present, comes back 7 pm, goes in the back way so the dog doesn't get out, slips and falls in his blood, sees his body - goes into shock and doesn't remember anything, but winds up at the high school cleaning her hands off."

"7 pm is consistent with the time of death. How do you explain her not walking in on the murder happening? Or seeing the murderer leaving the scene?" she offered.

"Time of death is approximate. She could've been twenty minutes late. Or maybe we've got the time of death wrong, it was humid that day, minor things can affect the estimation."

"And the shoe prints? The fingerprints?"

"Easy. Murderer left before the blood spread and wore gloves; we found her prints because it was _her_ trophy."

Miller's perfectly shaped eyebrow curved at him. "So now you're saying she was framed."

Graham was lit with an idea - he ignored her grimace. "We're focusing on the wrong person."

"Well, duh, obviously, if she didn't kill him, then - "

"No, no." He waved his hand. "The victim. Russell Fabray. Listen, what do we know about him? He's well-off, that's money, one of our number one motivators to kill. He's cheated on his wife before, that's another number one."

"And he's an alcoholic," she murmured, half-thoughtful, half-reluctant. "Probably made quite a few bad decisions…"

"Alcoholic, rich adulterer," Graham counted off. "There have to be a few more people who wanted to off this guy."

Miller had retreated to her trademark skepticism again. "But that doesn't mean they did."

He shook his head and flapped the file shut, exchanging it for his phone and a new sheet of paper. "I'm going to see about making some visits."


	5. New

**New**

Every time Rachel had driven by a prison before, it had seemed almost harmless. Just rows of brick or concrete buildings, a few guard towers, fences topped with barbed wire. She recognized them for what they were, but they held no threat to her, especially since she was always careful to regard the signs warning against picking up hitchhikers in the area. But today, driving up to the first checkpoint where a uniformed guard waited, clipboard in hand, Rachel stared up at the high, electrified fences surrounding her and swallowed thickly. She looked ahead at the grey buildings, grey upon grey, the fenced-in yards freckled with inmates in blue and tan fatigues, and a few with blinding orange instead. Guards stood with a hand always fingering their nightsticks, watching, looking as grey and tan as the scenery they stood over.

And Quinn was in there. In that bland, grey place, fenced, trapped, caged.

Rachel had been beyond happy to secure a private visit with Quinn on what felt like her hundredth call to the reformatory; Jesse had been relieved by her brief change of attitude, the smile with which she kissed him seemed to light his dark eyes. But it wasn't long until she remembered that a visit with Quinn wasn't going to solve anything. Quinn was in prison, until her trial, and from what the news reports were saying…

She tried to cast the thoughts from her mind. Quinn had been through so much before and come out stronger every time. She'd been pregnant at sixteen, homeless, and still held a 4.0 GPA, for crying out loud. She overcame a compressed spine and danced more gracefully than ever. She was Quinn. She was strength personified, and she would come out of this. The police would find something, and Quinn would be free, and Rachel would spend every moment she wasn't on stage or with Jesse re-learning Quinn and the ins and outs of her life.

These were the things Rachel had been telling herself every day since Quinn was arrested, but they had never felt more hopeless than when she looked up at the guard with his clipboard and his deep set frown, so ingrained in his face the lines in his forehead seemed to emulate the downward curve of his lips. Rachel hoped - prayed - Quinn was being treated well, and the need to see her grew stronger.

Now that the day was actually here, it felt the time had gone too quickly, and Rachel feared that their time together wouldn't be enough. For what, she wasn't sure, but once a month was too long, too far apart, but nothing could budge the monotone voice on the end of the line when she'd called. So she set up as many appointments with Quinn as she was allowed - two, as it turned out, as reservations could only be made 60 days in advance, and she was required to call each time - and took pains to look presentable for their visit, layering her makeup the way Kurt and so many makeup artists had taught her to make her eyes pop, curling her hair into thick waves, dressing herself in another Kurt had designed for her, not a gown this time, but a little blue spring dress with ruffles of fabric set at the sleeves and across her chest, and hanging a cotton white cardigan over top. But now she wondered if she should have dressed so well after all, if Quinn would be hurt to see her like this when she could only sit in a cell and - it was too late now.

Car parked, Rachel went inside and checked in again at the front desk. She was scanned with a metal detector, and after the guards confirmed her only metal came from her car keys, earrings, and necklace, a robust woman led her through the long grey hallways, spouting off rules as they walked. Rachel only half-listened, twisting her cardigan sleeves in her thumbs and hoping and wondering a million things - would Quinn be happy to see her? Was she okay? Would Rachel be able to walk out without Quinn once she saw her? How could this be happening?

The questions fell out of her head the moment she peered through the grid-lined window into the private room. The room was as grey as the rest of them, with a steel table in the center, steel chairs on either side of it, and in the farthest one, handcuffed to the table, was Quinn. She was in one of the blinding orange uniforms, her golden hair bundled back into a pony - loose, unlike the ones in high school, and Rachel couldn't see her face - she had her thumbs pushed into the juncture between her nose and her eyes, rubbing there. Tired.

Rachel nearly ran inside when the guard opened the door for her, nearly ran into Quinn's arms, but she was pulled up short when she remembered - "No contact with the prisoner."

And pulled up again when Quinn's head jerked up, and her hazel eyes went wide, blinking, and she was cold when she asked, "What are you doing here?"

Rachel's joints froze and, since tears came so easily to her these days, she felt them burn at the back of her eyelids. Of course Quinn didn't want to see her. This was all her fault, again. She had to go and get married, again. She had to go and make Quinn come, again. Only the scars Quinn bore from this wouldn't be physical, they would branch out through her life, silvery threads that choked her career, her family, her friendships, her _life_. Already Rachel could see the toll it was taking on her, the faint circles under Quinn's amber eyes, made all the more visible by the fluorescent lighting, the frown lines in her face more pronounced, and Quinn's shoulders, usually held high with confidence and posture, slouched, while her elbows supported her weight on the table. Quinn was not okay. And how could she be? She was in prison, accused of murdering her own father - and he wasn't a good father, or a good man, in Rachel's estimation, but he was still Quinn's flesh and blood, blood Quinn had been covered with when she absently came to support Rachel, like she always did, and Rachel felt the full weight of letting Quinn down. Again. She shouldn't have come. She covered her face, and tears came streaming, as forceful and unrelenting as they'd been since the moment Quinn had been taken away from her.

Distantly, she heard metal clink. "Rachel, please - "

Quinn's voice was halting, hesitating. Rachel peered beyond her bleary eyes and Quinn was wearing that look, distinctly uncomfortable, while she lifted her hands to the length of the chain trapping her to the table. Rachel sobbed harder, even as she admonished herself; this was the last thing Quinn needed, Rachel weeping at her when she was simply trying to get through this. She swiped at her nose, her eyes, trying to quell the flow.

"I'm sorry, please stop crying - I am glad to see you," Quinn was saying, but Rachel was only startled from her blubbering by the first two words.

" _You're_ sorry?" Returned, somewhat, to herself, Rachel sank into the chair across from Quinn lest someone peer in and think she was leaving, resisted the urge to reach for her hands, her pretty, long-fingered hands, and shook her head in disbelief. "You're the one in jail because of me."

Quinn's expression said everything - "What the hell are you talking about?" - but she was far too polite and too kind to say something like that to Rachel now. Instead, her soft lips parted and her sweet voice lulled, "I'm not here because of you."

Rachel tried to smile, wryly, but tears were resisting her directions. "It was my wedding, again."

"It wasn't your fault last time, either," she pressed, and she was about to try to make Rachel laugh - she could tell by the way Quinn's lips twisted and her eyes took on a shine. "You have a nasty habit of taking unfortunate coincidences on yourself."

Rachel managed to break past her tears' hold to smile a little, but it was quick to waver. "Bad things happen to you around me."

"That's not true." There was that playful streak again. "Most of them happen around Puck, so."

She couldn't restrain the tiniest grin this time, and Quinn was satisfied with her efforts. Her hands, fingers folded together, had settled back onto the cold steel tabletop, the handcuffs quietly clinking every time she shifted her wrists. Rachel could have cried again, but she pulled herself together, with some effort - and with the thought that even in blinding orange, Quinn looked gorgeous. She was the bright spot in a grey room, a grey world, and not only because of the clothes.

Rachel breathed in. "Are they treating you well?" Her voice wavered.

Quinn nodded, and her nerves eased. "It's not the Four Seasons or anything, but I'm okay."

"No, you're not." She bit on her lip when it quivered again. "You're being accused of murder."

The humor slid from Quinn's eyes like a ghost. She sighed. "I'm okay. How was the wedding?"

"Quinn." Rachel's brow furrowed, but Quinn only looked at her with doe eyes. It was her turn to sigh. "We cancelled it. Well, postponed it."

"You didn't have to - "

"If you're about to insinuate that my wedding is more important than you possibly being imprisoned for the rest of your life because you're 'okay,' just save it."

Rachel hadn't meant to be so harsh, but Quinn was silenced, so she didn't apologize. The silence, and the click of metal as Quinn adjusted her hands, reminded her that there was little time to waste, and though the very subject filled her with distaste, she asked -

"Has anyone else been to see you?"

Quinn's pony waved side to side. "Just my lawyer," and then, when Rachel scowled, "It's okay."

"No, it's not!"

Rachel remembered a time when Quinn had yelled something similar, in a bout of frustration. Only it was, "Yes, it is." And she'd felt her eyes go wide in surprise. She'd been so shocked by the anger Quinn kept buried inside, under that veneer of utter calm, reserved quiet. She imagined her expression must've looked something like Quinn's was now, but she couldn't bring herself to calm down, not when the scene at the high school the next day, when she and Jesse had told her preparing friends that it was off, was spinning through her head again.

It had been during the lunch break at the police station. Jesse had persuaded her to come announce it with him and to grab a deli sandwich from the Lima Bean afterward. They'd stepped into the auditorium where the group was decorating, putting up more green vines with white roses wrapped in them, attaching flowers to the aisle seats and setting up the microphone and spotlight, creating an Eden of roses and arches on stage. And they were laughing and talking. The sound instantly irritated her - how could they be happy when Quinn was in jail? And then she heard what they were saying.

"I knew she was too calm last time we were all here. It was only a matter of time before she snapped again." - Tina, handing roses from a cooler to Brittany.

"Lima makes you cray-cray." - Sugar, sing-song from a ladder.

"Quinn makes Quinn cray-cray." - Santana, sighing and testing the microphone.

"Would you hens stop clucking?" - Noah, angrily annoyed, leaving Sam to grapple with an arch.

"Look, we know you don't want to believe it, but you heard the news reports." - Kurt, haughtily, twirling a flower stem between his forefinger and thumb. "Hell, we all went here with her for four years. We've seen her highness flip back and forth from the Dark Side more times than Severus Snape, over problems smaller than a splinter. If there was a slot for Most Likely to Commit Murder in the yearbook, she'd have won it, no contest."

Rachel had exploded. She couldn't remember now what she'd said to them all, but evidently it had been impressive. Jesse, Mercedes, Kitty, Sam, Noah, Artie, and Joe - they'd all followed her out in that order; she hadn't heard a word from the rest of them since. To hell with them.

"You need our support now more than ever," she said now, grinding her jaw in memory, staring at Quinn's handcuffs vengefully.

Quinn was silent so long Rachel thought she was never going to answer, but then she said, calm, quiet, "Well, what matters is that I have yours."

And that warmed Rachel beyond her anger, if only for a moment.

She pulled at her lip, remembering herself again. "Quinn, how bad is it? The news stations just keep saying the same things, that-that you killed him and about your pregnancy and that - "

"They haven't mentioned Beth's name."

It was more a question than a statement, and Quinn bridled up like a Thoroughbred at the gate, her shoulders pitching upward for the first time since Rachel had entered, and a dangerous glint burned in her narrowed eyes.

"No," she soothed, unafraid. "Not that I've seen."

Quinn's shoulders dropped and her spirit left again.

Rachel allowed her that moment of relief. "If it weren't bad, you wouldn't be in here. And your lawyer would be - well, he should be trying harder to get you out of here anyway. Has he even appealed for another bail hearing, or-or asked for, I don't know, a change of venue? There's no way you'll get a fair trial from anyone in Lima, I mean, I don't get why, but your dad was so beloved by - "

"Since when are you an expert in legal procedure?"

Rachel stopped then, caught by a new look on Quinn's face. It was open and curious, and a smile teased at the corners of her lush lips, and the same playful humor lit her golden eyes, so they were dancing even in the harsh fluorescent lighting. But they were also narrowed and interested, so much so that Rachel felt suddenly sunburned.

"Well…" The smiling lips prodded her on, knowing eyes brought honesty rushing from her lips. "I'm kind of obsessed with Law and Order."

A laugh burst from Quinn's chest, full and free - Rachel couldn't ever remember hearing Quinn laugh like that before, and the sunburned feeling increased to a second degree burn. The warmth of her eyes, when Quinn looked at her again, almost edged it to a third degree.

"I never would've guessed. I mean, how can you stand it? There's no singing!"

Rachel might've been offended, but that familiar teasing look was back on Quinn's face, and the sunburn eased and she grinned back as if Quinn weren't handcuffed to the table and they weren't in a prison.

"You'd be surprised at the kinds of things I like that have nothing to do with singing, Quinn Fabray," she burred coyly, even batting her lashes for effect.

Quinn's grin brought the sunburn back, and Rachel felt, for a moment, as though Quinn's knowing eyes could see right through her little blue dress.

"Quinn, I can't stand this," she burst out, before she could stop herself from baring all under those glinting golden eyes. She lurched, a hand on the tabletop between them - she'd been holding back till now, but she wanted to have Quinn's hand in hers, to comfort her even if Quinn didn't like being comforted that way. "I can't stand seeing you here. I can't stand what they're accusing you of. I can't stand thinking you might be here the rest of your life." She gnawed at her lip, pushed on in spite of Quinn's discomfited face. "How bad is it?"

Quinn breathed, humor ghosted away again, and metal clinked on the table again. But she met Rachel's eyes. "Bad. McCormack has reviewed all the police evidence and there's no indication that anyone else was there."

"Rick McCormack? That's your attorney?" Rachel pressed.

She nodded. "Why?"

"There's a voicemail from him on my phone. And from a police detective, Graham or something. I haven't called them back yet; I mean…what could they want? I don't know anything." She gnawed her sore lip again.

Quinn seemed to be thinking, brushing her thumbs together, and shrugged. "You were there when I was arrested; they probably just want to follow up."

She seemed uncertain, though, and Rachel's unease grew - at the same time as an idea, small at first, started to wind through her thoughts, snowballing until Quinn's expression turned wary.

"I could tell them I was with you - "

" _No_."

"Quinn, if you have an alibi - "

" _Rachel, no_." Quinn looked and sounded so severe Rachel's grin faltered. "You will not lie for me. You will tell the truth, that you didn't see me until you came into the girls' bathroom at McKinley, and then the police arrived immediately afterward. You are _not_ going to perjure yourself for me."

Rachel opened her mouth - but the retort and her happiness died the moment the door behind her opened, and a monotone voice said, "Time's up."

She stood when Quinn nodded her out, hesitated, and took the chance - she leaned toward the beautiful face and hissed, "And I will _not_ let you spend the rest of your life here."

Then she turned and swept out, thinking only of a month from now, when she could see Quinn again.


	6. Eavesdrop

**Eavesdrop**

It was only belatedly, halfway back to Lima, that Rachel realized her alibi idea was no longer feasible, and if only she had thought of it the night Quinn was being arrested. But she'd been far too distressed, too confused, to do much of anything but protest Quinn's capability of hurting anyone. Now it was too late, and if she claimed she was with Quinn at the time of the murder, it would only bring trouble on both of them, calling whatever Quinn had told them into question, along with a million other things. But there had to be some way Rachel could help, some way to at least get Quinn out of prison, and foisted by the happy thought of planning and the happy thought of Quinn's free, full laugh, she plunged headlong into her day.

Jesse texted that he had arranged to meet some old friends from Carmel and Vocal Adrenaline while he was so near in town, so Rachel stopped by the public library to take out a few law books and spent much of her afternoon pestering two of the only people she was still speaking to. Kitty and Artie had taken up residence in Lima for the time being, with Kitty still attending Ohio State and Artie still in charge of maintenance and instruction in use of the A/V equipment at McKinley, after a teachers' strike a couple of years ago when they'd all come rushing back to fill in, at Mr. Schuester's begging. Rachel had never been particularly close with either of them, though she liked Kitty well enough and Artie was part of the original glee club - how could she not, on some level, adore him? But they were the only two left in town. Everyone else had only set aside enough time for the wedding and so they'd all gone trucking back to their respective homes only a day or so after Jesse announced its postponement.

Though Kitty was most adamantly on Rachel's side - or, rather, Quinn's side - and Artie seemed persuaded that if Quinn had done anything so violent, it had to have been precipitated by something pretty awful, they were quick to tire of her presence in their apartment, spreading her law books all over the place and gabbing on about Quinn's situation. And though Rachel no longer lacked the switch in her head that told her when people were growing irritated by her, at the moment, she couldn't bring herself to stop. Normally, she would have been bothering Jesse or Kurt will all this, and since she wasn't speaking to the latter after his comments, Kitty and Artie had to do, whether they liked it or not. So it was late, after a dinner of vegetarian lasagna Kitty made from scratch, that Rachel went toddling off back to the hotel suite with books clutched in her arms, and she still felt bubbling and fresh from earlier, so she dropped the books on the counter and shimmied out of her clothes and climbed on top of the lump of Jesse's body. He smelled distinctly of beer and pizza, however, and no amount of kissing and petting woke him. It figured that when Rachel was finally in the mood, her fiancé would be dead to the world.

After a long shower instead, Rachel curled under the covers in an over-sized tee and smiled as she sank into her pillow. Since Quinn's arrest, she'd been dreaming most unpleasant things, seeing in her mind's eye Quinn's scars, fresh and bloody, glass fragments sticking out of the teardrop shaped scratches over her stomach, a hunk of seat belt wedged along the bottom line of Quinn's ribs, and metal squeezed into her shoulder. Each night the wounds grew larger, bled more heavily, and had it been anything but a dream, Quinn would've been dead from them. The mornings washed most of these dreams away from her consciousness, so she had only the vaguest idea of undue tiredness hanging about her, but some stuck in her thoughts throughout days thinking of seeing Quinn, rubbing the skin surrounding her tattoo raw, and visiting with her fathers, separately, at theirs and Jesse's request. He didn't like her sitting around moping, and there was little else to do in Lima but see your parents, if they lived there, and if you were Jesse St. James, prowl the community theater to offer your wealth of expertise.

Today, waking fresh and free of bloody dreams, Rachel thought she would instead call back Detective Graham and Quinn's attorney, Mr. McCormack. With those ends in mind, she slid out of bed to set coffee bubbling and ready herself for another day without Quinn in it. She spared a kiss for Jesse when he stirred himself and set off for the theater, coffee cup steaming in his hand, and she was pleased he'd found himself a routine. He grew so restless and irritable without one, but of course, that was one more reason they were perfect for one another. Someone like Quinn, though her excellent mind was quite talented at developing and executing plans, would be just fine without one, too. She knew how to improvise on the spot, like her elaborate numbers with Santana and Brittany, back when.

Her phone pushed the silence and ease of her thoughts aside with a screech, and Rachel saw red, reading the screen. Think of the devil, she supposed, and she reluctantly answered, fully prepared to launch into a lecture, starting with, "I hope this is your apology call."

But the words died on her lips, when, from far away, muffled, she thought she heard Quinn's voice. From Santana's phone? Rachel's nose wrinkled, she turned up the volume on her phone, switched it to speaker. The hard, low voice was still muffled, crackling - but it was Quinn.

"I'm worried about Rachel."

Rachel was, in spite of herself, instantly warmed by the words, spoken in clipped tones though they were, and any shame that might've occurred to her, listening to the conversation, melted away, butter on the hot plate of Quinn's worry over her. It didn't occur to her to wonder when Santana had set her own appointment to see Quinn until she heard the scoffing voice, closer than Quinn's.

"What is with you two? First she takes all our heads off for cracking a few jokes, and now you - "

She didn't hear the rest. She was too busy chomping her lip back to bleeding. Jokes indeed.

"She's my friend." Quinn said it defensively, proudly, and Rachel was warm all over again.

Santana snorted. "Well, she's acting like your girlfriend."

The sunburn was back, the same feeling Quinn had put in Rachel's cheeks only the day before, red and hot - she wasn't acting like a girlfriend. Was she? Quinn, once again, soothed her thoughts.

"She's worried about me. She doesn't like that I'm in here, and she's already suggested perjuring herself to get me out of this."

"How?"

A heavy sigh crackled through the connection. "She offered to give me an alibi."

Santana's disdain came through much clearer than Quinn's sigh. "What good is that supposed to do you now?"

"Rachel - doesn't think the way you do, okay?" This came sharply, defensively - Rachel smiled. "When she gets an idea in her head, she gets excited and she charges, full steam ahead. You make maneuvers that benefit you."

It hit Rachel then that Quinn didn't speak to Santana the same way she spoke to her. With Rachel, Quinn's voice - well, once it was clipped and sharp and annoyed, but since they'd become friends, Rachel had only ever heard her soft, soothing. In fact, everything about Quinn was warm and comforting, now that Rachel thought of it, thought of her golden eyes and her relaxed lips and her smiles, small but present. Santana, her oldest friend, was treated with a much different regard, something Rachel hadn't noticed before, but now heard distinctly in Quinn's voice. There was still an edge of steel there, protection. If Rachel had been smiling before, she was beaming now.

"So what do you expect me to do, babysit her? Rachel's a big girl."

"Yes, she is, but I don't know how long I'm going to be in here."

Rachel sat on the edge of the buoyant bed. This conversation was growing too overwhelming - first she smiled, then she sneered, and now, hearing Quinn admit it, that she didn't know if she was ever going to be out of that cage -

"All I'm asking is that you…are there for her, when she needs you."

Just as Quinn had always done. Rachel was certain she would never accept Santana as a substitute, but the thought that Quinn cared enough to -

"Fine. If she ever speaks to me again, I'll see about fluffing her pillows and drying her tears for you."

Rachel rolled her eyes heavenward.

"What did you do?"

"Why do you always assume _I_ did something?"

Rachel thought the words as they came from Quinn, "Because you always did."

Santana puffed. "I told you, she freaked out on us when she caught us daring to doubt your innocence. Said we weren't fit to be friends with you and - if we were going to judge you on your past mistakes, then maybe she'd have to stutter at Tina and warn straight guys to stay away from Kurt from now on." She paused. "That part was pretty funny, actually."

"Well, she believes I'm innocent. That's - "

"Are you?"

The question was spoken with a quaver, a note of fear buried in the audacity. And it was audacious. Rachel had never even thought to ask. It was simply a given. Quinn was innocent; she would never, never hurt someone that way. Never kill someone. Rachel tried not to allow her ego to fill, her pride in being a better friend to Quinn than even her oldest friend, an old want fulfilled, because she felt, in that moment, that she was Quinn's best friend. She had a faith in her no one else did, and the feeling, and her anger with Santana, was solidified when the exchange continued.

"What do you think?"

Rachel held her breath to keep from alerting them of her listening, somewhere in Santana's pocket or purse.

"I saw you covered in blood."

Rachel thought that perhaps it wouldn't be too long before she could even share a cell with Quinn, for strangling Santana.

But as the silence ebbed on, Rachel's rage, pulling her so tight she'd begun to feel the pressure of a headache throbbing against her temples, faded enough to allow her to remember something Quinn had once said. It came when Rachel was still fresh with anger at Santana years ago, when she'd taken the understudy role and Rachel was so stung and shocked and young, she'd flung herself into a diva upset, and when she Skyped with Quinn about it later, she tried to soothe her with her reasoning, reasoning Rachel had been too infuriated to hear at the time, but she remembered it now. "Santana is uncomplex, unanalytic."

So when Santana took on an understudy role, she did it for her own benefit, and thought not once of Rachel or her reaction, how it might make her feel. And when Santana saw Quinn being marched down the hall in handcuffs, covered in blood, she didn't think, as Rachel did, that something horrible must've happened, but that Quinn couldn't possibly have done anything wrong. She let the news stations and those around her put the pieces together for her. Because she didn't think beyond the surface, unless it benefited her.

Understanding did not aid Rachel in feeling that Santana was in any way justified in hurting Quinn this way, or in not harboring the same blind - no, it wasn't blind, it was justified faith in Quinn. She wondered where Santana's friendship had failed, where her own hadn't.

"Then I guess we have nothing else to say to each other."

Rachel heard the scrape of a chair and hung up. It didn't occur to her until much later that she had just overheard the end of a friendship; for the moment, all she felt was pride, pride in Quinn for her strength, and again the yearning to see her, to remind her that Rachel was on her side. Even if no one else was. Quinn and Rachel, against the world. She smiled at the thought.


	7. Lion

**Lion**

For the last few minutes, the only sounds in the visitor's room were the shuffle of paper, the clink of metal, and the decisive scribble of a pen. McCormack had divided papers from Diane and Ellen each into two piles and Quinn worked through them one at a time, with a brief skim of each to determine the purpose of her signature, and then slashed her name across the bottom. Under normal circumstances, she was more careful about what she signed - each contract was read top to bottom several times over, and she reviewed them with Diane to be sure she understood every last detail, which she usually did - but it never hurt to be careful.

But right now, in the presence of her brusque lawyer, she set aside care for speed, though she might not have done so if most of the papers hadn't been contract releases from the agents and scouts she had on her payroll. Her business prospects were dropping like flies, and though Diane had offered to fight to make them all adhere to the letter of their original contracts, Quinn thought it wiser to let them go without a fuss. After all, if she was proved innocent, it would mean cleaning up unnecessary bad blood if she tried to gather them back into the fold; and if not, well.

Diane acquiesced to her point, and so most of the papers from her consisted of the temporary transfer of powers in running Quinn's business while she was - incapacitated. Ellen would ultimately be running the company with Diane providing guidance, particularly in the legal capacity, on a permanent basis should Quinn be found guilty, but those papers would come later. For now, delegation was the key to maintaining a working business in her absence and incarceration. There was also the matter of dividing up Quinn's assets, though she had asked Diane to hold off on that until they had the business settled again in the midst of all this upset.

These conferences with Diane were held over the phone, and the papers all delivered by McCormack. He was about the only person Quinn saw not wearing a prison uniform these days, and though that in itself was a relief to look at, and she knew she should have at least been pleased to see the person responsible for her case, to have updates on the status of her case and possible release, she grew tired of him more swiftly each time he came - despite her isolation.

Carol's interest and friendly feeling toward Quinn seemed to have faded the moment the ink dried on her skin, though Quinn had been careful not to look at her work in a mirror until they were no longer in the same room, out of a desire not to offend. The skull tattooed over Ryan Seacrest's obnoxious face was surprisingly artistic, shaded beautifully, a grinning devil sneering out from her lower back, and Quinn was duly impressed with Carol's skill. Carol did not, however, return even a fragment of the admiration and only a speck of the friendliness. She did, at least, return Quinn's greetings with 'hey' and had once defended Quinn during the night when a guard came around to hush Quinn's crying sleep - she recalled dimly the blinding light of a flashlight and the guard's rough voice threatening if she didn't shut up she'd be put in isolation, and for a moment she'd felt the same paralyzed fear as a toddler being told she'd been very, very naughty and for no reason she could particularly recall. She hadn't been punished for anything, by the guards anyway, and in fact, her good behavior meant she could call Diane and Ellen and even Santana. These calls meant little to her at the time they were made, but when her little links to the outside world were threatened, and aided by the fading wisps of a nightmare, Quinn lost breath and life - until Carol, standing beside her bed with a firm hand on Quinn's arm, barked, "She couldn't help it. She was having a nightmare. I'll keep her quiet."

And Carol was as good as her word on that account. Each time Quinn found herself in the binding grips of her own mind after that, she was rolled forcibly to one side or the other by Carol's firm hand, and she woke just as abruptly, so that the torturous images were forgotten and she could, after regaining possession of her faculties and her thudding heart, find a calmer sleep thereafter. And though she was certain Carol acted out of a sense of irritation rather than concern, Quinn was grateful to her nonetheless and grew fonder for each incident, waking in the dark to the glint of black eyes and a warm hand on her shoulder.

But even these small interactions left Quinn quite alone in her new world, and McCormack was hardly the balm to ease the growing pit of loneliness gnawing at her.

She slid over the last paper and rolled his pen back to him, blowing out a breath of completion. McCormack picked it up and stuffed it into his files and briefcase with the others, and finally leveled his cool green eyes at her.

"Diane and Ellen could bring me the papers, you know," Quinn said.

Though in Ellen's case, this was no longer true. From what Diane said, she'd gone back to New York in order to better control the chaos at headquarters, but Quinn's inherent distrust frequently led her to bait McCormack, to see what he knew. This time, however, he didn't take it. He only spread his lips into his contemptuous grin.

"Don't you trust me?" He patted his briefcase, as if ensuring its security, and dropped it to the floor beside his chair.

Naturally, she should. He was getting her off on a murder rap.

"No."

McCormack grinned wider. "Well, until I know what they know, I want them off your visitor's list."

"They weren't even in Lima that night."

"But they've been with you for the past, oh, three, four years? They might not be your best friends; hell, maybe you don't have any friends, but they're the closest you've got, or they wouldn't have flown out here first thing after your arrest. Every dirty deed you've done, I'm willing to bet they know about, and since the DA is going to be coming down on every last bone fragment in your closet with a magnifying glass and maybe even a few fossils to plant, too, I'm going to keep them as far away from this case as I can until I'm prepared with what they know."

As usual, everything McCormack made perfect sense, but there was something to his attitude that riled Quinn anyway, like an unexpected feather run up her spine. She supposed it came, in part, from his unhidden disbelief at everything she said. He was a true skeptic, and perhaps, being as distrusting as she was, she should have appreciated the characteristic in someone else. And she did, to an extent. As a lawyer, he was ruthless and clever - even his failures to remove her from the fate of prison weren't his fault. She could see for herself why she'd been placed at such a high security status: the brutality of her crime, the confidence in her guilt, the community love for her father, and perhaps most of all, her wealth and therefore her ability to flee without trial. With an unfriendly judge at the arraignment hearing to boot, the best lawyer in the world couldn't have fought against those conditions - or at least, no better than Rick McCormack had.

Still, Quinn sometimes wondered if she would be better off with a lawyer who actually believed in her innocence, but each time she wound up imagining a doe-eyed greenhorn kid with the high ideals of justice and complete and utter inexperience, even incompetence. And she decided she would rather have a lawyer who didn't believe her, but who would try his damndest to set her free, with all his cunning, caution, and cleverness.

So she tried not to snap at McCormack's slimy smile when she said, "Diane and Ellen only know the business, and my business is legitimate."

"No corporation earns their wealth in that amount of time with honest deals," McCormack drawled simply. "There's something, and since you won't save me the trouble and tell me, I'll figure it out."

"Would you believe me even if I did tell you?"

He grinned at her again, and she writhed inside. "No. So for now, they stay off your visitor's list. Speaking of which, I see you had two lady visitors - a Ms. Rachel Berry and a Mrs. Santana Lopez-Pierce." His grin had faded into something no less nasty, but far less pleased.

Quinn rolled her eyes to avoid looking at his sneering lips. "They're friends."

"Uh-huh, and what did you talk about with your 'friends'?" He was digging in his briefcase now, pulling the pen from his pleated shirt.

The very idea of sharing the true content of her conversations with either Rachel or Santana sent a nasty taste to her mouth, like the aftertaste of a dose of liquid medicine, and Quinn's mouth clamped shut, rejecting the idea, despite predicting McCormack's reaction, the immediate assumption that she was hiding something that would follow. And from his suddenly sharp, interested eyes, she knew just that had happened, but it no more convinced her to speak than if she _had_ had something to hide.

The fact that she didn't, perhaps, made her reluctance to speak ridiculous. After all, her conversations with both Rachel and Santana had been perfectly innocent. Quinn hadn't confessed any horrible secrets, and neither had they. But still, her mouth refused to let any of these defensive words pass.

Only the uncomfortable evasive maneuver: "It's personal."

McCormack's eyes went heavenward, and his legal pad landed on the table. "You realize that the DA has the power to make either one of your 'friends' give up whatever you talked about in here, whether it's 'personal' or not."

She shrugged, unwillingly. "It won't help his case."

"I'll be the judge of that."

For a moment, their cold, hard eyes struggled against one another, two stone walls straining to topple the other over with the sheer weight of their strength. And McCormack sighed.

"Anything you say - hell, anything you've ever said, ever done, and everything you do and say now, I need to know. Because trust me, the DA will find out."

Again, his words appealed to Quinn's logic in the most irritating way, needled by her instinctive distrust. It was her turn to sigh, to raise her eyes to the ceiling.

"They were friendly visits," she offered begrudgingly.

McCormack, gaining an inch, pushed. "Detail what a friendly visit between you and these two are."

"I called Santana and asked her to come visit."

"Why?" He clicked his pen, jotting chicken scratch on his legal pad.

Quinn's lip curled. "To talk."

His irritation was crackling in his eyes when he sighed at her. "About…? Come on, why did she need to come all the way out here? What did you need to talk about in person?"

Her jaw unhinged only enough to say, "About Rachel."

"Okay, then let's talk about your visit with Ms. Berry."

Her eyes burned at him, but he was looking at his legal pad again. "She came to see how I was."

"Is that all you talked about?"

She hated him. "Yes."

"So, what did you have to talk to Mrs. Lopez-Pierce about?"

Every piece of him. "I asked her to keep an eye on Rachel."

For the first time, McCormack's eyes lifted from his notes and flickered to her hands - fisted together, whiter than porcelain. Quinn tried in vain to relax her pose, noticing his green gaze taking stock of the signs of her seething anger - an ample supply, she was sure, for her body felt tense as a spring, pushed into its tightest coil. His prodding, poking at her, at Rachel - every interaction with Rachel had been logged, filed away into her most private stores, not just of her mind, but beyond the hard shell of her heart. His violation of her intimacy, his very interest in Rachel was freeing a piece of her she kept as carefully tucked away as those memories, a ferocity which had long been serving to guard her privacy and her feelings.

McCormack's next question was more carefully stated than his usual brusque manner, but it was no less provocative. "And what is the nature of your relationship with Ms. Berry?"

Her voice was so low she hardly recognized it. "We're friends. She's upset that I'm here. So I asked Santana to keep an eye on her for me."

He looked at her for only a moment longer and then returned to his pad. "Is that all you and Mrs. Lopez-Pierce talked about?"

Quinn relaxed a fraction. "Pretty much."

"What does 'pretty much' mean?"

"She asked if I was innocent."

His green eyes were on her again, less cautious and more aggressive this time. "And you said…?"

"I neither confirmed nor denied."

"You...why not?" His pen slammed down.

Quinn was cautious this time, speaking slowly, as if to a child. "Because Santana had already made up her mind, and nothing I could've said would've made a difference."

McCormack grunted. "You should have said it anyway - and you're going to say it from now on. Courts don't pay much mind to how individual relationships work. You act guilty judging by normal standards, you are guilty. Now I don't know about adding her to my witness list." He stared back down at his pad.

" _Your_ witness list?"

"I'm gathering a list of character witnesses, so far consisting of - " he flipped a paper or two and decisively scratched off a name " - Ms. Berry."

The tension had returned with a vengeance, and Quinn shook her head violently.

"No. Rachel stays off the list."

McCormack leveled her with an impatient stare. "If she feels as strongly about you as you do about her, then she's an asset."

His insolence only spurred her raging fists, curling into each other with increasing stiffness. "I don't want her anywhere near this. Do I make myself clear?"

Quinn hated him all over again, the way he stared at her now, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, gawping like so many others caught in the snare of her wrath. She had no way of knowing, of course, that McCormack was not staring dully - not intentionally, leastways - like a frozen, frightened animal as so many others had done, but marveling at the violent beauty from someone usually so docile, so quiet. He even felt threatened, a rare occasion indeed, and decided that if he was going to include Miss Rachel Berry in his case, he would have to do it without the consultation or awareness of his client. But her inclusion would have to be decided after he spoke with her anyway.

"Fine," he agreed now, and Quinn was instantly, though not completely, soothed.


	8. First

**First**

Detective Graham had finally found some time to meet with Rachel. It was about as difficult setting up a meeting with him as it had been during her shows back in New York. The weeks she'd spent playing Fanny Brice, for instance, were an utter blur to her save for directions and sleeping and a roaring audience beyond the blinding rays of a spotlight. But finally, he had found time and they were meant to meet at the good old Lima Bean this very morning to talk - 'about Ms. Fabray's case.' What this entailed, Rachel still hadn't the faintest idea, but it seemed to be the common explanation for a meeting. She had returned Rick McCormack's call as well and asked if he could meet her in the afternoon at the Lima Bean, for efficiency's sake - and so that she would have both meetings over and done with to discuss with Quinn in a couple weeks' time.

Already Rachel was eager to see her again, though she knew that like the last meeting, the weeks of waiting would stretch on forever and, when she left the prison, it would seem she had hardly seen Quinn at all and she would only go back to waiting, forever waiting for Quinn. But she preferred that to never seeing Quinn at all and decided that she would visit once a month for the rest of her life if need be - but there wouldn't be a need. Quinn would be fine and Rachel would see to that today, somehow, when she spoke to the detective and Quinn's attorney, and then Rachel could spend so much time with Quinn she'd feel as smothered and irritable as she had back in high school and Rachel would grin at her cloudy face until she smiled resistantly again.

Rachel was certain she was quite a spectacle for the coffee-addicted morning crowd at the Lima Bean, sitting alone with a Styrofoam cup of herbal tea in her palms while she nodded to herself and smiled and pouted at turns. She never had quite managed the art of stoic contemplation, and her expression had just turned self-deprecating when the bell over the door jangled and Detective Graham entered. She almost didn't recognize him without the uniform and the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, but then there were the calm blue eyes seeking her out.

Rachel stood, smoothing out her skirt for the habitual hand shake as the detective approached, a smile spreading wrinkles throughout his face, particularly crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and she liked him instantly now.

His callused hand closed around hers as he spoke, "Ms. Berry, I apologize if I've kept you waiting. I'm Detective Graham, we met the, uh…"

"Night you arrested Quinn," Rachel said plainly, unapologetic for the obvious discomfort this statement caused him - he cleared his throat and let her hand loose. "I remember. Would you like something to drink before we get started?"

Graham seemed to recover from his embarrassment as swiftly as she ushered the conversation on. "Oh, no, thank you, I'll be all right. Uh…"

With a gesture to the chairs, they were sinking back down, and Rachel latched her full attention onto the detective in front of her. He was middle aged, she saw now, a few stray grey hairs spackled along his temples, the black mane thinner on top. Something of the tension Rachel had been carrying dropped in light of this observation, reassurance that she was dealing with a man of experience, someone who may be an ally - or at least, that was the impression she'd gotten from speaking with him on the phone. If he turned out to be against Quinn, trying to gather nasty information for the district attorney, Rachel decided she would throw her tea in his face and storm out. His first words assuaged her fears.

"So I got the impression...that night that you believe Ms. Fabray is innocent. Is that still true?"

"I _know_ she's innocent," Rachel corrected thinly, but otherwise bit her tongue on any other comments that wanted, as usual, to leap from her mouth without much time to linger in her brain.

The corners of his mouth crinkled. "Even after seeing her covered in blood at your rehearsal dinner."

She wanted to say - began to say - to give an explanation before she realized she didn't have one. She only knew that Quinn had been in shock and that - something horrible must've happened. But she could hardly offer that as an excuse to a police detective. Besides, Quinn had forbade her from lying in any capacity.

"Quinn would never hurt anyone."

"Not even her father?"

The question might've barbed Rachel, but the way Graham spoke, curious not mocking, soothed her bristling furs and sent her to shaking her head instead.

"No. I'm not saying they got along, but that doesn't mean she would ever murder him, or anyone else, for that matter."

"Can you tell me more about that? Her relationship with her father?"

Rachel gnawed her lip. No lies. "I don't know much. Quinn's...she's always been very private. All I know is that he kicked her out of the house after he found out she was pregnant and that it was her mom who welcomed Quinn back. I didn't find out for a long time that he was back, too."

Graham prodded again, patiently. "How did you find out?"

"I…" Her joints froze, reflexively, and it was with an effort that she wrenched her jaw back open. But still she pushed her tea away. "I saw him at the hospital, after Quinn's accident."

The blue eyes batted, widened. "What accident?"

Any question but that. Rachel closed her eyes and tried a breathing exercise. She had been doing it for years. Had had to develop the habit from one too many crying jags over Quinn's…. Graham was still waiting, patiently, when Rachel completed a second repetition of the technique and found herself capable of speech again.

"She was...paralyzed in a car accident our senior year."

The words came out in a rush after the initial hesitation, spat out so that she might never have to say them again, ejected from her very consciousness.

Graham didn't push. "So that's all you know about their relationship."

"She's never talked about him much," Rachel said regretfully - and again she had that sinking sensation, the one that had settled in her stomach and pushed it to the floor while she sat with Diane and Ellen. How little did she know about Quinn, really?

"So you don't know much about Mr. Fabray either then."

For some reason, his voice seemed laced with disappointment, and when Rachel found his face again, his mouth was crinkled differently, downward. The worn lines in his face stood out more than they had in the entirety of their conversation, and he truly looked his age now. Rachel fought for information, darted through her mind for anything - any tidbit Quinn might've accidentally allowed to slip. But Quinn was always so careful to tuck herself away. Even with Rachel, to whom she spoke to without the guarded steel she addressed Santana with - she was warm and open and - why hadn't Rachel ever asked more?

There had been a piece of Rachel in high school, a piece that still existed, still lit her aflame with excitement to see Quinn and to hear her say things like, "She's my friend." It still thrilled and sparked like a bonfire being piled with more and more kindle each time, sending the flames flickering to lick the sky. But since Quinn had admitted they were kind of friends, the fire had burned no less bright, but smaller, as if it had gotten through the bulk of the logs Quinn had been piling onto it with her spare kind attentions. Now it was a simple campfire, crackling with each smile and burning lower until the next time she saw Quinn again. But in this moment, sitting here with Detective Graham, trying to think of one scrap of information she knew about Quinn's own father, Rachel realized her sin.

She had achieved friendship with Quinn and had thought no further on the matter. It had been enough to champion that great loyalty Mercedes was so privileged to have before her. It had been enough to have Quinn accept her hugs with warmth and a smile. It had been enough to receive tickets from Quinn, ensuring the everlasting nature of their waxing and waning friendship - but why was that enough? It had been years since Quinn had finally accepted her into her life and bestowed upon her smiles and hugs and tickets and loyalty. Undying support. Rachel couldn't fathom now why she had never used those tickets. They sat glued in some scrapbook next to a picture of Quinn in her Magenta outfit. She couldn't fathom why she hadn't grabbed onto newfound friendship and dragged and prodded and clawed every bit of Quinn Fabray she could get. It had been years and Rachel still only knew her as a mysterious, but reliable friend.

In spite of the truth of it, of these thoughts, Rachel's mind struggled against it. No, she knew Quinn. Rachel knew...she knew Quinn's shoes. That if she was working out, or when she'd been on the Cheerios, she wore sneakers or tennis shoes, but the rest of the time, she wore boots - high-heeled boots, pleather boots, knee-high boots, ankle boots - or high heels - strapped, full, two-inch, three-inch - or flats with a tiny stitched flower or ribbon on the front curve. She knew Quinn's legs and her skirts - broomstick skirts, A-line skirts, pencil skirts, maxi skirts, pleated skirts, jeans skirts - and how each and every one flowed around her swaying hips and oh, Rachel knew the way Quinn walked. Straight and strong in all her confidence, sashaying and flowing in all her grace, shuffling and lackadaisical in her idleness.

Rachel knew Quinn's body, the length of her toned, pale arms, tucked against her in a squeezing warmth, the way she breathed when they were pressed together for bare moments that left Rachel wanting - but she was always wanting something, so she never questioned it. She knew her heartbeat, thudding in a rhythm at variance with her breaths against Rachel's own chest, because her heart was fast and urgent, and her breaths slow and deliberate. Rachel knew Quinn's hair - golden, platinum, sandy, neon pink, short, medium, long, in a French braid, an updo, a ponytail, down, messy, straight, curly, in waves - but always, always silky against Rachel's cheek.

Rachel knew Quinn's smiles - when she was being polite, when she was privately annoyed, when she was playing innocent, when she was happy. When she was truly happy, and when she was only content.

"How long have you known her?"

Unlike his other queries, pulling Rachel from her train of thought so that it was forever lost in the vast caverns of her mind - which in the case of Quinn's accident happened to be a blessing - Graham this time managed to spur Rachel's thoughts on. Yes, she knew from the beginning about Quinn's smiles, about when she was happy.

"Since freshman year of high school."

But her answer was absent, because truthfully, Rachel hadn't met the 'new girl' in freshman year of high school. Not right away, anyway. Besides, everyone was new to high school, so new kids more or less faded in with the rest of the freshman crowd, faded to obscurity. Not Quinn, though Rachel paid as little attention to the Cheerios as possible. She found out later that Quinn had soared to the top of the Cheerios with much upset in that first year, senior girls who had been waiting for their chance to be at the top growing hateful of Quinn and resentful of Coach Sylvester, but swiftly learning to keep silent on both counts.

But Rachel had no idea of Quinn's growing significance at WMHS until after she'd already met her. For half the year, Rachel's fathers had been driving her to school in the morning, parking in the shady spot by the oak tree and near the double doors. They laughed and teased until it was time for Rachel to go in, and she kissed them goodbye, and started her day on a good note. Until they returned from Christmas break, and that first day, there was a red VW sitting in their usual parking space. Her fathers left early due to the morning sun blinding everyone in the car. The car was there again the next day and the next, and her fathers left early, leaving Rachel in a stew despite the time it allowed her to practice alone in the auditorium. She missed her mornings with her fathers, drinking coffees and spurring Daddy out of his morning funks and going into the school bubbling with the confidence she so desperately needed when, on most days, she was greeted with a slushie by her peers.

She remembered fully intending on leaving a nasty note on that red VW's windshield and even mentioned the idea to her fathers. They managed to talk her down from it for weeks, plying her with the truth that it wasn't a big deal, the spot wasn't reserved or marked for their use, and they still spent their weekend mornings together. Their reason could only appease her for so long, however, and the morning she waved goodbye to them and then surreptitiously pulled the note she'd produced in a frenzy the night before - that was the morning she really met Quinn Fabray.

Rachel had sauntered up to the car, readying to slip the note beneath a windshield wiper - noting with only faint interest the 'student driver' tag hanging from the rearview mirror - but before she could even lift a blade, a chilling voice sent her joints freezing.

"What are you doing to my car?"

She'd whipped about. There was Quinn Fabray.

Rachel struggled to remember for a moment. Quinn had been tucked in her Cheerios jacket, already earned, pink in ears and nose and cheeks. Her arms had been folded, burying her hands away from the cold, but her legs were exposed to the chill. Her thighs had twitched with firm muscle. And her golden hair had been pulled back from her face, tight and unyielding, but her expression wasn't like the other Cheerios'. Though she wasn't smiling, not really, there was a twinkling, mocking look in her eye and her eyebrow had been curved in its - at the time - unfamiliar arch.

Rachel had, valiantly, managed to speak in spite of the red uniform. "You're in my fathers' spot."

Quinn sauntered toward her, all straight and strong. Her posture was impeccable. "Oh, am I?" She made a show of looking around. "I failed to see the sign. Is it written in invisible ink, by chance?"

Rachel's jaw dropped. "My fathers and I have parked here every morning for the first semester until you came along with your little VW. Can't you park somewhere else?"

Throughout this attempt at a friendly solution, though Rachel had been brusque and thoroughly annoyed, Quinn had only unlocked her car, taken out a book from the glove box, and locked it up again, all the while wearing that same expression - amusement tickling the corner of her mouth, eyes - hazel now, Rachel could see, brilliant hazel, piercing and in the wintry morning light, golden - dancing with mocking. Mocking. Rachel was mocked every day and it incensed her now as it upset her from the rest of them.

"No," Quinn had answered - and Rachel had gotten the distinct impression she said it just to see what Rachel would say.

Her jaw had flapped in rather an undignified manner for a few moments before she managed to splutter, "Why not?!"

A shrug, graceful, nonchalant. "It's the best shade in the whole parking lot."

"It's winter! And, anyway, if that's what you're so worried about, then get a sunshade!"

Rachel's arms had flailed, much as her jaw had, and Quinn had smiled.

No, no, she had laughed. Full and free, and Rachel realized - she had heard Quinn laugh like that before, besides in the prison. That first day, and Rachel had been so incensed, so….

No. No, Rachel had been indignant, but primarily she had felt a burning in her cheeks, a flustering of her thoughts. And she'd gotten the impression Quinn could see right through her clothes, even the layers she wore to protect from the frigid air, when she looked at her, smiling - happy.

Quinn glowed when she was truly happy.

But Rachel didn't see it for years, long years in which she'd forgotten how flustered she'd been by Quinn, by her lively eyes and her graceful walk and her glow. And as she remembered, she found the source of an irritation she'd thought sprouted over a year later, a dislike that didn't fully heal for a long time, and now returned with a vengeance, because she remembered Santana marching up to them, snow crunching under her tennis shoes, and demanding to Quinn, "What are you doing talking to _her_?"

And then a whisper in Quinn's ear sent the glow from her.


	9. Laugh

**Laugh**

Graham hadn't gleaned any further information about Russell Fabray from Ms. Berry, but she had regaled him - before the news stations found out and twisted it the way they were twisting everything else, she had informed him - of Ms. Fabray's history as a bully and a fighter. This bullying nature of hers had been more than atoned for and never veered to the violent, and all of her fights, Ms. Berry had taken pains to explain to him, were started by someone else. Namely Santana Lopez-Pierce. She even admitted that Ms. Fabray, in a storm of passion, had once struck her, but had been so horror struck by what she'd done, she'd apologized instantly and threatened to leave the school altogether.

By the time Ms. Berry had finished explaining all this to Graham, with very little actual explanation about her bullying days, only the stalwart assurance that Ms. Fabray was never really mean deep down, Rick McCormack had appeared at their table to shake hands with Ms. Berry and sit, and Graham was relieved to find a reprieve. While the information Ms. Berry provided was useful to an extent, he had hoped to learn far more about Mr. Fabray, and the endless reassurances and ramblings on the virtues of Quinn Fabray had worn on him. She was a pleasant woman, he'd decided by the end, but more loquacious he'd perhaps been expecting.

He did manage to get a couple more words in edgewise, advising Ms. Berry to convey all she'd said to Mr. McCormack as well - it would do him well to know that his client had a poor history as a teenager before the district attorney glommed on to even more of it - and also informing Mr. McCormack himself that the district attorney was in the process of forcing a Ms. Shelby Corcoran to testify against Ms. Fabray.

Graham had overheard the chief and the DA in the main office, approaching to deliver a report on the previous night's arrest for a domestic violence call, and the DA was violently espousing his irritation with Ms. Corcoran. Evidently, the woman had told the DA she would rather spit on his shoes than help send the biological mother of her child to jail. He was now threatening her with an obstruction of justice charge for her refusal to testify, and Graham thought, in spite of this woman's apparent grit, she would likely end up bowing under the threat, and so he warned McCormack, who smiled the appreciative yet slimy smile only a lawyer could manage, while Ms. Berry's tan skin paled as though he had conjured a ghost.

Graham didn't get to linger on that, for McCormack sat and occupied Ms. Berry's attention with the flourishing of his legal pad and pen and his unwasted words, "I understand that you and my client are close. I'd like to utilize you as a character witness, but first I need to know if you are now or have ever been in a relationship with Ms. Fabray."

He lingered only long enough after that to see Ms. Berry's cheeks flush curiously, and then set off for the door. Regrettably, Ms. Berry was the only person save for Ms. Fabray's sister, Francine Cain, he'd managed to speak to about all this. Of course, 'speak to' was a general term in Mrs. Cain's case. She'd left a voicemail on his phone, in response to his own, saying virulently, "Lucy-belle would never hurt anybody! And I know what you're after with your questions about my daddy, _Detective_ , and he was a good man with a good heart. You find whoever killed him and let Lucy-belle go."

It had taken him some time after listening to the voicemail to realize who 'Lucy-belle' was. Even the news stations cut out Ms. Fabray's first name in their reports, so embedded was the connection with her middle name only.

He'd decided then he wouldn't bother to call Mrs. Cain again. Even if she wanted to cooperate and reveal her father's dirty little secrets, she lived across the country, which in his experience limited witness knowledge severely. This did not bode well for the others on the list of contacts he'd gathered, either. Most of Ms. Fabray's friends were spread throughout the country, including her most recent ex-boyfriend, according to town rumors - though he took this with a grain of salt, considering how long it had been since Ms. Fabray had actually lived in Lima, and scanned her Facebook profile instead. There was no indication she had ever dated anyone there, not even pictures with someone, no relationship status updates. And the ex-boyfriend, an Air Force man, had recently shipped out again. He was no longer available, though that was just as well, since the relationship had ended years ago - again, according to town gossip.

The other friends Graham knew of hadn't gotten back with him, save for Ms. Berry, and now that he had met with her, his hopes that Ms. Fabray's friends would know details of her relationship with her father - details of his activities, too - had sunk. While he had been contacting Ms. Fabray's friends, he was still working under the guise of an investigation into her and her alone. Now, he was forced to branch out to Russell Fabray's friends, people who would be unlikely to enjoy speaking with him, who would demand to know, "Why are you prying into _his_ life? He was the victim! He was a good man!"

Death made heroes of everyone, but Graham knew better, and he had a feeling that someone else knew better, too. Russell Fabray's widow. It was a long shot, given how long it had been since her husband had cheated on her, as far as the rest of the world knew, but a cheated spouse was even better for information than a formerly happy one. So he had called and respectfully begged a meeting with her, and Judy Fabray invited him to her home.

Graham had been to the house - mansion, really - only once before, of course, but seeing it now, not swarming with his colleagues and yellow tape, it looked truly impressive. White colonial columns marked the broad front porch, decorated with black iron benches and end tables, and potted flowers sat by the columns, hanging down to the dirt. He didn't know what kind they were, but he recognized the violet morning glories winding up the ivory columns, in full bloom even on this rare crisp summer morning. Each window was accompanied by black shutters, against copper bricks and white siding, and curtained, floor-length windows stood on either side of the tall oak door, an old fashioned knocker resting in the middle of its length. He opted for the doorbell instead, and instantly pleasant sounds of birds twittering good morning and crickets chirping good night was violently punctured by the rapid-fire shrieks of a dog.

His eyes went wide, for a moment thinking to charge in from the fear in that bark, but soon a woman almost half his size in width and three quarters in height opened up the door to him, calling over her shoulder, "Quiet, Georgie."

Graham saw instantly where Ms. Fabray got her looks. The woman in front of him was aged, probably even more now under her circumstances, but her features were pinched tight, and not only by a bun stretching her skin back and the plastic surgery he suspected she'd had. But, like her daughter, she was the very essence of class and sophistication. He took in nails recently manicured, white at the tips, blonde hair bright and clean and wound up in a complicated do he couldn't even begin to name, skin not as opalescent as her daughter's, but still creamy in its tan, looking as soft as if she washed with buttermilk. She was encased in mourning black from head to toe, save for the pearls in her ears and around her neck, and of course, the diamond studding from her ring finger. He couldn't begin to name brand of the dress or heels or cardigan she wore any more than the hairdo, but it was all ironed and free of any sign of lint or damage, perfectly fitted, stylish. Expensive. And to complete the look was the politest smile he had ever seen save for when he wrapped Ms. Fabray in a blanket to save her modesty.

He was stricken with the indescribably odd urge to bow, but only dipped his head. "Mrs. Fabray, Detective Graham. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Detective. Won't you please come in?"

He offered his hand to her, which she took with only the barest grasp of her fingers, not in a real shake, but a mere hold, which she loosed almost immediately to gesture him inside. The dog hadn't stopped wailing, and he saw now, glancing around the great hall following the entryway, that it was a little hot dog, cramming itself far underneath a dresser. The dresser itself was oak, like the door, and held doilies and lotion and a little basket full of envelopes and there was a silver mirror above it - but it was so dull compared to the chandelier dangling above him and the staircase sweeping up to higher levels and the pristine black and white-tiled floor at his feet that he didn't notice anything more about it.

"Hush, Georgie." Judy Fabray's voice was tinged with never-ending patience. "Can I get you anything to drink or eat, Detective?"

Georgie heeded her not even a little, whimpering louder still as his wide eye turned on Graham from beneath the dresser in such a way as made his own nerves rise, unwillingly.

"No, thank you. Ah, is he all right?"

He gestured none too delicately down at the dog, and finally, Mrs. Fabray bent to gather him from under the dresser and into her arms instead. She coaxed him carefully, holding him to her chest as she might a burping baby, and the dog's scant little tail slipped between his legs. But at least he was silent again.

"I'm sorry - he's been this way ever since…" For the first time, Mrs. Fabray's expression twisted from its polite pose into a grimace, but then she was breezing on as though she was speaking of a silly child whose fears of the dark could only be endured, not understood. "Anytime someone rings that doorbell or even walks in the front door…"

A spark of something - an idea - was in Graham's mind then, and he thought, he could ease her into the subject of her husband in a moment. In fact, this might be the perfect way.

"Mrs. Fabray, I have...two questions."

She nodded him on, cradling her baby dog and patting his back.

"Where does your daughter keep her cheerleading trophies and, uh, what does he do when someone walks in the back door?"

#

Rachel had not stopped thinking of Quinn - well, since her arrest, but now, her thoughts were steered toward the past rather than the present. Though she was still very conscious of Quinn's situation, and still combed through legal books borrowed from the library, it was with little success or feeling that she was helping. Law and Order was a lot easier to understand, for one thing, and though Mr. McCormack had indeed decided to use her as a character witness in Quinn's unset trial, Rachel had nothing to do until then but wait and visit Quinn when she was allowed. And she still had another week before she could do that.

So, while this new occupation was useless to Quinn, at least it occupied Rachel's mind, wondering what else she didn't remember, or misremembered. Had she ever seen that look on Quinn's face before? Had she ever heard her laugh like that before, outside of those two moments, years apart? Had she ever seen Quinn glow like that aside from that very first day?

With some thinking, more moments, more laughs collided in Rachel's head. She recalled how, when The Avengers came into theaters the summer after they graduated, and she'd overheard the boys and Quinn talking about going to see it during one of their little reunions, she'd burst with enthusiasm to see it, too, because the trailer looked so amazing and she loved superhero stories and hadn't Captain America been such an engaging movie, the rest of them all looked at her with disbelieving eyes, but Quinn had laughed. And, when they all went to see it and Rachel sat with a big bucket of unbuttered popcorn in her lap, pieces shooting into her mouth as her body wound and her eyes went wide with the happy suspense of a child, Quinn had watched her in the dark with dancing, laughing eyes.

She recalled how, in junior year, a year in which Quinn had looked at her with such utter contempt - or so she called it - they had worked on that original song together for so short a time, but in that time, she had invited Quinn up to her room, and Quinn had called her 'lady' and an artist, and when they had taken a break to fill up on snacks, Rachel had gotten out a juice box and stabbed it through and sipped at it until the box crinkled up, and Quinn's mouth had quivered until Rachel showed her a purple tongue - and then she laughed.

She recalled how in the library one day, when Quinn was pregnant and Rachel was dating Jesse for the first time, she'd been straining on the very tips of her toes to reach a book on the top shelf, only her Mary Janes weren't exactly meant for a ballet-like pose and she'd nearly fallen and taken down the whole bookcase with her. Then a pale arm had appeared beside her and pulled down the book her fingers had been grazing, and there was Quinn, her eyes already dancing, laughing. But she didn't offer Rachel the book yet, and so Rachel held her breathless thanks - but her cheeks burned. Like sunburn.

And Quinn laughed. "Danielle Steele, hm? Is St. James leaving you so romantically bereft?"

Rachel thought - upon first remembering - she'd been incensed again, remembering herself saying, "No! He's a perfect gentleman and - "

But she had been burning, and Quinn had interrupted, "What a difference a week makes. From pressuring you into sex to a perfect gentleman."

"He apologized," she'd said weakly, as Quinn pushed the book into her hands. "And besides, when I decided not to go through with it again after I told him I was ready, he was completely understanding."

This was said with more strength, but it died almost instantly. Quinn's expression hadn't changed from that cold, calm scowl she always seemed to wear - and without any frown lines - but Rachel, looking at her, had suddenly realized her mistake. She gasped and smacked her hand over her mouth, and Quinn's eyebrow arched.

"Oh, God. I told Finn I had - I had - oh, please don't tell him!"

Quinn's pretty blonde lashes fluttered. "Don't...tell him you _didn't_ have sex with St. James?"

"Well, I don't want him to know I lied!"

And there again, Quinn laughed - and only now did Rachel see why this was funny, that she would rather Finn think she had lost her virginity than to know she lied at the time - and when she was finished, she merely said, "Your secret's safe with me," and slipped away.

Rachel was realizing she made Quinn laugh a lot, though often she had little to no idea what was so funny. She even falsely remembered feeling insulted by Quinn's laughter, but when she thought harder, scraped at the memory, she found that she'd only felt sunburnt. And perhaps that, the lack of indignation, was because Quinn's laugh was too pure to be mocking, too happy to be cruel.

She was on the verge of another realization, the verge of a discovery about Quinn; she could practically feel it in her bones - when her attention was caught by the sound of her fiancé's voice. Not in the room with her, next to her, but on the television, on for background noise since she so hated the silence. There were microphones in his face and he smiled as he always did for the cameras, not a smile, but a smirk, smug, his chin in the air.

He was saying, "Rachel and I simply felt that, under the circumstances, it would be better to wait until our wedding could be about us, not some psychotic guest we unintentionally invited."

And he laughed.


	10. Tired

**Tired**

Rachel sat for an hour in utter disbelief. And then the footage rolled again. It was on a few other local channels, too, during their little entertainment segments. 'Jesse St. James breaks silence on the Broadway marriage and denounces Quinn Fabray.'

It was utterly incomprehensible to Rachel. Jesse had always liked Quinn. He had always described her as the ghost of Grace Kelly, the mind of Scarlett O'Hara sprung to life, the heart of a lion, the voice of the 50s. Rachel smiled approvingly of each and every label he laid upon Quinn, always complimentary, always kind, even in the face of Quinn's cool civility. He never even complained about the way she treated him; he only said it was part of her Southern politeness - and when Rachel protested that Quinn wasn't Southern, he smiled slyly and said, "But she has all the charms of a belle."

And to hear him now - psychotic? He had denounced her, all right, adapted to the media's way of speaking of Quinn entirely, even in language. Rachel, much as she had grown in the area of understanding others, could not align this contradiction properly. Even the other glee clubbers she could understand, to some extent, even if she couldn't forgive. Kurt had liked Quinn only for a short time before his judging eye fell cruelly upon her activities; Santana wasn't thoughtful enough to realize Quinn's innocence, and Brittany went along with whatever Santana said; the others didn't know her, not the way Rachel did.

But Jesse?

Each time Rachel viewed the footage, her grasping for knowledge slipped farther and farther away, pushed aside by a growing ball in her stomach. It was the size and weight of a bowling ball within a couple of hours, thick with rage and heavy with betrayal, and it dragged at her without direction, so that she was torn a dozen ways - she wanted to rush out of the hotel suite and never look back, go stay with one of her fathers until Quinn's trial; she wanted to wait until Jesse arrived and _then_ let him watch her storm out with only a solid slap to the face; she wanted to wait and scream, scream at the top of her lungs, scream as she had screamed at her and Quinn's supposed friends; she wanted to run to Quinn. Quinn, who always put problems in perspective, who always saw the reality, who would support her no matter what she decided to do.

And in all these conflicting desires, the wrath untempered even by her deep affection for Jesse, Rachel only wound up pacing a hole into the rough red carpet, TV off now - she couldn't bear to see his smirk one more time, to hear him say those awful words, she would hurtle the thing out the window even if it was practically twice her size - her arms tucked so tightly to her ribs she could feel the thud of her own heart against her elbow, clenching her teeth so tightly they shot an ache straight up her jaw into her temple.

It was in such a state that Jesse found her, returning from the theater with a brown bag tucked in one arm and a bottle of wine clasped in his other hand. A baguette jutted out from the bag, next to a bouquet of white roses, their fragrance masked by the sharp scent of curry and pineapple fried rice - her favorite. He didn't seem to notice her mood, too pleased with himself to allow the stormy atmosphere to puncture it, and grinned broadly at her where she stood staring - it was only when he dipped in for a kiss and said, "Good evening, my sun and stars" and she dodged him that the light in his eyes flickered.

"What's wrong, sweet?"

Rachel seethed. She could see clearly that he was examining her now, registering her immense displeasure, but the fact that he didn't already _know_ what he'd done only served to encourage the crackling in her mind and the weight in her gut. Wisely, Jesse retreated to the table at the window, setting out the wine bottle and the contents of the bag almost noiselessly. Words resisted her grasping mind - she was too angry for words, too angry for anything but a hard slap in the face, but she couldn't slap Jesse. Still, in spite of her wrath, she wanted there to be an explanation. She wanted him to smile and say he had an identical twin out there who was trying to ruin his life. She wanted him to say he was drunk. Or high, or anything but that he had said those words about Quinn and meant them.

"I thought we could have a picnic," Jesse said lightly, when it had been minutes and she hadn't even taken a breath to speak.

Words snapped to her lips. "Do you really think this is going to make up for what you did?"

"What did I do?"

Genuine dumbfoundedness.

"As if you don't know!"

"I don't."

"So I imagine you don't remember speaking to any reporters."

Recognition lit in Jesse's dark eyes, but he approached with open hands. "A few of them cornered me this morning when I was on my way to the theater and asked about our wedding and - "

"And you called Quinn psychotic," she hissed, and she didn't even recognize her own voice now. Her hands were trembling as she held them out - she would really hit him if he came any closer. "You _called my best friend psychotic_! Behind my back! Behind _her_ back! To those - those fucking vultures! And you made it sound like - you spoke for me! You - how could you - I can't think of a word bad enough to call you!"

Jesse stared, his mouth opening several times, but Rachel kept shooting at him with angry words, horribly stunted as they were. Her mind was writhing with the slap she so wanted to deliver to him, and she knew if she could only see the pink mark on his cheek for his cruelty toward Quinn she would feel better - and it startled her. She had never, even when she had slapped Santana, truly wished violence upon another person, and even now, she knew she would regret it even as she relished in it, if she hit Jesse. But she felt there was nothing else that could properly convey to him how hurt she was. He had gashed her and she wanted apologies, she wanted to sting him with words as vicious as his own had been - psychotic - but Quinn had always been the one with a way with words. Rachel floundered pathetically in comparison.

In spite of her inadequacy, Jesse looked at her with skin white as a sheet and eyes cut with injury - she had hurt him after all, she thought. Good.

"But I was joking," he defended at last. "I laughed and I said - I _said_ we were postponing for now and that Quinn would be a guest, pending her acquittal."

Rachel's breaths, dragging from her chest so thickly she suddenly felt lightheaded, stopped altogether as she stared up at him. There it was. An explanation. The bowling ball in her stomach drew heavier, now in regret for having screeched at him, for wanting to slap him - and he must've taken her expression the wrong way, because he went on, more desperately.

"Rachel, I swear, they must've cut the rest of the interview. I wouldn't - "

She thrust a hand up between them again as he approached, this time to stop the flood of apologetic words, and sank to the edge of the king-sized bed. Of course, news stations felt free to eradicate things like context and facts, these days when information came a hundred miles a minute, when celebrity gossip was worth its weight in gold, when outrage brought ratings or clicks or views. She should have thought of that. Why hadn't she? It was such an obvious mental out for Jesse, and she couldn't help but think...had it been years ago and Finn had been in the same situation, she would have thought of it. If it had been Quinn. She would have thought of it, just as she had explained away the blood - something horrible had happened, but Quinn was innocent.

Jesse was crouched in front of her now, watching her with blatant concern, while he rubbed her knees, and Rachel, looking at his dark eyes, suddenly felt very tired. She had been thinking so long and so hard, and all about Quinn; when, in the last few days - weeks, had she even spared a thought for Jesse? And here he was with wine and her favorite meal and white roses and taking her tempest with calm and understanding. He had become a wonderful man. He would be a wonderful husband. That was why she was marrying him.

No, because she loved him.

Oh, she was so tired.

"Sweet?"

"I'm so sorry," she blew out, a mere whisper, but he heard - and he smiled, tucking her hair away from her face with gentle fingers.

"We're all victims of bad press at one time or another," and his voice was back to normal, no longer coaxing or alarmed, but playful and boasting - a touch dramatic, "I just hope you don't react this way when the inevitable cheating rumors hit the tabloids a month into our marriage. Speaking of which," he rose with a pop of his knees, and she heard the cork pop, "I know you're preoccupied with Quinn's trial right now, but I was thinking - what do you think of eloping? It's romantic, exciting - we can always have our big wedding for the press and our families when we come back from a long honeymoon in Greece, stuffing ourselves with baklava and making love every sunset in the waves of the Mediterranean, in the shower every night to get the sand out of our hair?"

He was chuckling, holding a half-filled wine glass out to her and pulling her hair from her neck. He kissed her skin, the sensitive patch just beneath her earlobe, sucking there with his lips.

Jesse was right. It would be romantic to elope. To marry in a foreign country, or in New York on their way to Greece. The world would be abuzz with the news of their disappearance, and they would melt into a different culture, immerse themselves in delicious foods and each other until they'd had enough of ancient temples and white sand and turquoise seas and pita bread and marble statues and exotic, isolated love - alone with each other in a foreign land, relying on each other, feeding each other, making love to each other. Forgetting the world and everything except beautiful sights, delectable food, and love.

So why was Rachel imagining it with someone else? Wondering what it would be like to feel golden eyes following her everywhere she went, dancing and laughing when she bellowed songs from Mamma Mia. Wondering if she would look even more beautiful walking along the beach in a white dress, golden hair flowing around her shoulders, smiling freely. Wondering if, after days in the kiss of the sun, her porcelain skin would bronze - or grow gold like her eyes and her hair, and she would be a Greek goddess. Wondering if she would tease Rachel endlessly - but still give in to her desire to feed succulent grapes to one another, if she would daringly taste Rachel's fingers on a bite, if -

This was all Santana's fault. And all McCormack's, too. Why did she have to say she was acting like Quinn's girlfriend? Why did he have to ask if they'd ever been together? Now the thoughts had been planted, had grown with her silly remembering, and all that remembering was at fault, too. She'd twisted things. Quinn had never looked at her with a glow, she had never laughed fully and freely, she had never teased her, been playful and - she was Quinn. Quinn was Rachel's friend, one of the best, and definitely the most supportive, so of course Rachel was devoted to her. Utterly.

She loved Jesse.

But Quinn was still in prison, still being wrongfully accused, and the idea of leaving - that was a real feeling, the gut reaction, and Rachel clung to it as the only real thing stirring in her mind at the moment.

"I told you I can't leave Quinn right now."

Jesse's arm, slung around her chest, holding her against his hard pectorals, loosened. "We'd be back in plenty of time for her trial."

She sighed. "That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

"She needs me. I'm the only one on her side."

"That's not true, she's got her attorney, that cop, those women you told me about…"

"They're not close with her like I am."

Jesse's hand slid up to her shoulder. He seemed to hesitate, and then his warmth disappeared from her completely. The wine glass landed back on the table, none too gently, next to its twin. Rachel could see, in the dimming light, his jaw was working - he was fighting with himself, and when he turned back to her, something strange in him had won. She had never seen this dark face before.

"Rachel, I...there's nothing you can do for her here."

"I can support her, like she's always supported me."

His face was even stranger then. And he finally asked it. "What if she's convicted? Are you going to spend the rest of your life here, visiting her just to show your support?"

Rachel hesitated - leave, no, but to abandon New York entirely - "I would...I would just have to visit once a month, but she won't be convicted, she's innocent."

"And what if she's not?"

Psychotic hadn't hurt as much as this. Her teeth set and her head hurt again. " _She is_."

"You don't know that, Rachel! God. You wouldn't believe it even if someone showed you footage of her bashing his brains in, would you? You'd just go on saying how it was shopped and oh, Quinn would _never_ do anything like _that_. Never mind the fact she's already lied, manipulated, cheated, bullied - _tried_ to steal, a fucking baby, at that! What did she do, Rachel? What did she do to inspire such blind faith in you? How did she get you wrapped so tightly around her little finger?"

#

Rachel would never know how she found the strength not to slap Jesse after that. Now, of course, she was too inebriated with cosmos to think of hitting anyone. Too angry and hurt to speak, she'd left the hotel a few hours ago, in spite of Jesse calling after her with apologies, excuses of frustration and exhaustion pouring from his lips, and only in the parking lot had she realized she had nowhere to go. None of her friends were in town, and even if they had been, she wasn't speaking to most of them - they'd only side with Jesse, just like her fathers would. They approved so highly of him that each and every quarrel between them, born from the sickness of being far too similar to one another and different in all the wrong ways, her fathers encouraged her to work it out with Jesse. It was practically the one thing they agreed on these days. And Kitty and Artie were already irritated enough with her - she couldn't bother them again.

Anyway, Rachel didn't want to. The one person she wanted to go to she couldn't see, not yet. Not for a week.

It hurt now, thinking that so many days and so many miles and so many bars separated her from Quinn. And not in the vague way it used to hurt, when Rachel thought of Quinn. That was a mere spark that died when she thought - 'I'll see her back home at Thanksgiving,' or 'I'll call her this weekend,' or even 'It'll be a month between, but that's how often I see her now. I can bear it as long as she's freed.' No, now it was burning her, physically. The bonfire was back and it was angry for being ignored so long, and she had been feeding it, unconsciously, remembering Quinn and how all along there had been moments, moments Quinn fed her the will to keep hoping for something, for friendship, all along. With smiles and laughs and teasing, far and few between all the stoic glares and snapped remarks and mocking - but so worth it.

As worth it as intimate moments, even rarer, but now, swept up in alcohol and the noisy atmosphere at Benchwarmers and thinking of Quinn, another memory was swirling in Rachel's mind, fuzzy at first. It had no shape, no context, only the shouts around her twisted into the voices of her friends at first. And then there came the scene of bloodshot eyes and cheeks puffy with drink and Noah's chin dribbling with beer while they all chanted something different, so it was a slurry of voices with no aim, but Rachel remembered. They were playing Seven Minutes in Heaven, years ago, at that forgotten, drunken party she'd thrown in junior year. Everyone had thrown in an item of clothing in a pile, and Rachel blearily plucked out the bandanna Quinn had been wearing - she'd shrieked with laughter, and even tipsy as she was now, she couldn't remember why.

Quinn had stood gracefully, wobbling only slightly. She hadn't had a drink in a while, Rachel vaguely recalled, but Finn had had to drag her to her feet and hook her arms around Quinn's neck to get her upright. And to whoops and hollers, they slipped into the dark of the coat closet, and Rachel remembered clenching her eyes shut and puckering her lips up at Quinn.

Nothing.

"What are you doing?" Quinn's voice had come, calm, vaguely amused.

Rachel had batted her eyes open. It was difficult to see in the dark, in the blurriness of her drunk world, but Quinn's eyes became her world, her focus, and she peered up into them with a crooked grin.

"We're supposed to make out, aren't we?"

Quinn's eyes danced, even in the dark. "I think you've had enough kissing for one night, don't you?"

Rachel shrugged. Quinn's arms were solid around her waist, and her silky hair was slipping over and through Rachel's fingers, and she smelled like tequila and soap, just as Rachel thought of Quinn. Sharp, burning and yet sweet. She was being sweet now, Rachel had thought, holding her even while she slumped bodily against Quinn's lithe frame. She felt as if she had no legs, only arms with which to hook onto Quinn's neck, only fingers to grip her hair and the collar of her denim jacket. But that was okay, because Quinn held her up, and she was warm and comfortable like Rachel's bed after a long day when she had worked out too long and had had too many slushies thrown in her face.

And so she felt no shame in slurring happily, "I just wanna know what it's like."

"Why?" Quinn's voice had sharpened with interest - Rachel hadn't noticed at the time.

She giggled. "Cause you're Quinn Fabray. And everybody knows you're 'mazing. Finn says it's like fireworks."

She had found Quinn's lips in the dark, following the perfect angle of her nose, but Quinn didn't let her reach them, and Rachel wound up with her head tucked beneath her bony chin. She hardly noticed the disappointment, settling somewhere in the back of her mind, and sank into the new comfort, the new pleasure of being entirely surrounded by Quinn. She'd sighed with immense pleasure, the smell of Quinn's perfume tickling her nose now, so close to where she'd sprayed it against her pulse points, her arms ensuring and securing the warmth, warding off the chill of the basement. One shiver brought Quinn's jacket around her shoulders, somehow without dislodging Rachel from her position.

And then Quinn had breathed, and Rachel knew now she wasn't meant to hear, "Don't hate me."

Rachel had raised her head nonetheless, a deep pout creasing her mouth. "Oh, Quinn! Don't think that. I know I've been awful lately calling you and Sam names an-and - but it's not as if you didn't ask for it sometimes! But I - "

Quinn's eyes were laughing, but her mouth was set in its thin line. "That's not what I mean." Her hands, so still surrounding Rachel, fell to her cheeks and neck instead, in such a firm grip she felt Quinn's thumbs pressing her skin into her teeth - but Rachel liked it, to be held so tightly, to feel Quinn's nails scraping pleasantly through the fine hairs at the bottom of her bush of brunette hair. "You belong in New York."

Rachel didn't see what one thing had to do with the other, but she was far too drunk to question it - in fact, she went along with the seeming subject jump with a grin and a hop in Quinn's grasp. "I do! I love New York! You know the first time I saw it, I said, 'Daddies' - I was with my daddies - I said, Daddies, this is where I'm going to live and I'm going to be on Broadway like Barbra and throw mag - magni - huge parties for Christmas and Hanukkah and my birthday - and it'll last that long, too, one big long party from my birthday to New Year's and everyone will come an-and I'll be so famous they'll have to listen to me and set the carriage horses free and I'll sing as loud as I want all the time and everyone will love to hear it so much they'll never complain, and I'll have pumpkin spice themed everything in the fall and skate at Rockefeller Center every year when they put the big tree up - before the party, of course - and, oh, you should come, too, Quinn! You would be so happy in New York!"

Quinn seemed not to have heard the last part. "You deserve all that. And I have to make sure you get it."

Rachel found her eyes in the dark again, and they were no longer dancing - but Rachel hadn't been able to read them then. She couldn't see - sorrow, though the word now seemed inadequate to describe the utter loss in Quinn's eyes. She'd only seen a change and heard 'you deserve it,' and her heart swelled and she'd grinned lazily up at Quinn, and asked, "Are you gonna kiss me now?"

And Quinn had smiled, sadly. "No. I won't do to you what Puck did to me."

By the time Rachel crawled into bed beside Jesse that night - or rather, morning - she had lost whatever meaning had been gleaned from the memory, though she was so sure it was important, and she spent the night tossing and turning, gripping desperately onto the threads left to her - to the memory of Quinn's sad, wanting eyes.


	11. Progress

**Progress**

Miller had, predictably, been unimpressed by Graham's findings at the Fabray house. The original placement of the cheerleading trophy meant very little to the case, she claimed, and in fact, only served the idea of upping the charge to first degree murder instead - if Fabray went and retrieved it for the purpose of killing her father. Otherwise, they could all assume the trophy was being polished in the kitchen for whatever reason and be done with it. And she was even less impressed by the dog's reaction to the doors, simply saying, once he had finished, "A dog," with so much skepticism he thought her eyebrows might knit together permanently, and sighed and went back to her coffee.

Graham knew what she was thinking. He was reaching, and maybe he was with the trophy and the dog and the doors, but his interview with Mrs. Fabray had been encouraging. It was a few days before he had a chance to sit down and listen to the recording again, to add to the sparse notes he'd taken during their conversation.

After testing the front and back doors, with the dog screeching every time the front door opened or the doorbell rang, and staring at him with cocked head each time Graham stepped in the back, Mrs. Fabray had welcomed him into the living room, a rich sitting area with burgundy leather couches, scarlet carpeting and curtains and cushions, and a coffee table decorated with potpourri, a vase of red flowers, and evenly stacked coasters, all sitting atop a cloth to protect the woodwork. Mrs. Fabray had set out an iced tea on a coaster in front of him, taking a lemonade for herself and setting out a quickly put together selection of veggies on a serving tray, along with a spread of dinner napkins. Graham had politely crunched on a carrot dipped in ranch sauce, ignoring the big begging eyes of the dog who had sat at his feet, recently calmed by Mrs. Fabray's gentle hands scrubbing at his flopped ears. When it became evident that Graham was going to offer him nothing, the dog sighed and lay on his stomach next to Mrs. Fabray's high heels.

Graham started the recording. His own voice came back to his headphones, crackling once. "Are you all right with this?"

"It's perfectly fine, Detective." Mrs. Fabray sat across from him, spine straight, fingers folded delicately over her knees, her ankles crossed elegantly.

"I'd like to ask, if I might, about your daughter's relationship with your husband."

Mrs. Fabray breathed out, and the dog looked up at her - his tags clinked on the recording. "Well, they were very close when Quinn was young. He spoiled her endlessly. But when that boy impregnated her - "

"That boy, Noah Puckerman, correct?"

"Yes. Russell felt she'd dishonored him, the family, God. They never fully recovered from it."

"Not even when he came back, pardon me, after his affair?"

Mrs. Fabray's voice softened. "No. In fact, they barely spoke until a couple of years ago, when Russell was diagnosed with cirrhosis."

Graham had briefly recalled the coroner's report, the autopsy noting excessive liver damage, clubbing about Mr. Fabray's fingers, vascular lesions, extra fluid in the peritoneal cavity - but it obviously hadn't been the cause of death, and so no one had looked into it any further.

"Why then?"

"My husband had an addictive personality, Detective. He struggled with alcoholism...practically since I knew him, probably longer. And like most addicts, he found other avenues, as well. Gambling, in particular, after I welcomed him back home." Mrs. Fabray sighed, and he remembered the grimace crossing her face again, the emotion passing through before it could be identified. "Between that and my daughter's hospital and physical therapy bills - she was in an accident in her senior year of high school - well, our savings have long since been depleted and we would have been living paycheck to paycheck if it weren't for Quinn. She's been sending us checks for his treatments since he told her about his diagnosis."

Graham had been astounded. "Why didn't you tell anyone before now?"

"Only one person has interviewed me, and I...wasn't quite myself at the time," Mrs. Fabray admitted quietly. "You may, of course, look into our financial records to see whether I'm telling the truth, but you'll find the money was taken out almost as soon as it was deposited."

"For your husband's hospital bills?"

Mrs. Fabray had hesitated, and this time the grimace lingered longer on her carefully composed features. "I don't know what he used the money for. Because of his history as an alcoholic and his age, the hospital passed him over for a transplant, for a better...investment. It seemed to destroy any self-will he once had… He was in a lot of pain, Detective, and I only have my suspicions. I believe he was applying for loans and...possibly...finding other ways to alleviate his pain."

She wouldn't quite meet his eyes as she said this, and she spoke so quietly he could hardly hear her on the recording. Her shoulders even hunched slightly - and he read the first real feeling on her face, not courtesy or falseness, but real shame. But he couldn't stop questioning now, not now when he had a real lead.

"So, to clarify, you are suggesting he was indebting himself to loan sharks and using drugs."

Her eyes closed painfully. "I only have my suspicions, Detective. But I suggest you start with his cell phone records and our finances."

Graham had studied her closely then, as Mrs. Fabray seamlessly put herself back together. The pain and shame disappeared and she smiled pleasantly at him, offering calmly to retrieve Mr. Fabray's cell phone for him after their interview had ended. It reminded him of the eerie way Quinn Fabray herself had accepted her arrest, and suddenly he was convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was innocent.

"Do you believe your daughter is innocent?"

Mrs. Fabray reached down and lifted the dog into her lap, stroking along his back. The clock ticked in the silence. "I want to. I'm afraid to… Have you seen her?"

Her eyes had filled to the brim with brightness, and Graham had been sorry to quash it, because for that moment, Mrs. Fabray had been quite beautiful.

"Not since she was transferred to Marysville. But she was holding up, last I saw her. She's strong," he'd tried to reassure, and Mrs. Fabray had only nodded and pet the chestnut coat of the dog in her lap. "I'd like to ask one more question, for today. How did she pay for Yale if your money was being gambled away, pardon me, by Mr. Fabray?"

"We separated a college fund for both of our girls when they were born. I secured it for Quinn's access only after I caught him cheating on me," she explained absently. "I assume the rest was paid for after the fact by her business earnings."

Despite Mrs. Fabray's focus on the dog, there had been a little pride in her voice at that moment, and Graham hadn't been able to help smiling. Not only for the maternal joy this woman displayed over her clever child, but because Mrs. Fabray had just given him his first solid leads, his first solid defenses to offer up to McCormack and the Chief - to hopefully allow him to open up a larger investigation.

He had spent the last few days digging through the phone and financial records Mrs. Fabray had supplied him with as a result, finding almost precisely what she had predicted along the way: disposable cell phone numbers called multiple times a week, texts setting up meetings in Lima's notorious dirty district, large amounts of cash deposited and taken out in quick succession from not only Quinn Fabray, but corporations with dubious names that, when tracked down, had been falsified or had only existed for a month for the sole purpose of that one transaction. And of course, Graham had pored over the medical records, too. Quinn Fabray's medical bills, including pregnancy, childbirth, and the car accident everyone was so hesitant to speak of, had been entirely paid off, but Mr. Fabray's payments for his cirrhosis treatments and management were patchy, late, or alternately early, with large chunks paid off at a time, markers that he was getting money in batches, using it up, and starting over again - a classic pattern of a gambler, or someone visiting loan sharks.

It wasn't exactly perfect, this new theory of Graham's, of course. Loan sharks might beat someone to a pulp for a payment, but killing them would likely mean never getting their money back at all - and nothing had been stolen from the scene at the Fabray home, not even Mr. Fabray's wallet, so no one had been retrieving collateral. The same went for drug dealers - without someone to push their product on, get hooked, and keep collecting from, their business went down. It was possible, however, that a thug had taken things too far, panicked, and set the blame on whoever happened to show up first - the unlucky Quinn Fabray, in this case.

It was the cheerleading trophy that bothered him, though. A thug collecting or 'reminding' Mr. Fabray about a payment would more likely use a baseball bat or brass knuckles, not whatever happened to be lying around.

But it was a start, this theory, and even Miller couldn't deny that Quinn Fabray was looking less and less likely as the true culprit. The dog's disturbance by the front door was negligible, though Graham was certain it lent credence to the idea that the real attacker had entered from the front door, had even rang the doorbell and been let in by Mr. Fabray, while Fabray had undoubtedly entered through the back, according to both her and the witness. But a daughter who lived civilly with the father who kicked her out and disowned her, went to college on essentially her own money, then became a self-made woman with no need of his life insurance, and finally paid for her parents' luxurious livelihood?

It was possible, he allowed, that she was sick of paying for his medical bills, but a bludgeoning, the very opposite of subtlety, the very definition of an impassioned murder made it unlikely. Unless, of course, she had discovered he was sending her money off to drug dealers that same evening, which, he noted, the lawyers and Miller would automatically suggest. And still, there was the cheerleading trophy.

Mrs. Fabray had showed him the glass case where the family kept Fabray's achievements and specifically where the cheerleading trophy usually sat. Not a speck of dust indicated its place, only the chunk of emptiness in the otherwise well-organized display told that something was wrong. Why would Fabray retrieve the cheerleading trophy from the study across the hall from the kitchen and return to murder her father with it if she was in a fit of passion? Why wouldn't she simply use a knife or the toaster or anything else lying around? The simple answer was that she wouldn't - that she hadn't. But Mrs. Fabray knew nothing about the trophy and said that last she'd seen, it was in its case, and that neither husband nor daughter had mentioned anything about cleaning it.

Miller would say, "So what?" But it bothered Graham, and he added to his notes - he needed to visit with the Fabrays' old maid, on their records until two years ago, and the witness, the neighbor, Mrs. Carole Hummel.


	12. Fire

**Fire**

Jesse had gone back to New York the morning after their argument. It was a mutually agreed upon decision, after he woke Rachel with coffee, aspirin, a rose tickling the tip of her nose, and apologies. For his behavior, for the things he said.

"You know I actually admire Quinn for the things she's done just to win. She'd have made a hell of a Vocal Adrenaline member in its day." He'd crouched down before her, wrapped up in a fluffy white hotel robe, sipping from the Styrofoam cup he'd pushed into her hands, smiling earnestly and wryly at the same time - she never would understand how he managed to do that - and began slicing up the pancake breakfast he'd retrieved for her. "It's just that we've been here so long already, and if she's convicted - I'm not saying she's not innocent, but what if things don't go the way you hope, sweet?"

Rachel had been unable to answer. The very thought froze her joints, popped her lungs - she'd begun her breathing exercises, and Jesse stood abruptly to rub her shoulders.

"I can't live in Lima forever. And neither can you," he'd continued more gently. "We have our careers to think of, more stages to tackle together - we have our wedding, our honeymoon. I want to marry you so, my sun and stars - " he'd kissed her hair " - putting it off only this long has made me crazy enough to feel jealousy over _Quinn_." He'd laughed, and she had set down the fork she'd been fiddling with, turning pancake bits over one another. "And I'm just afraid if she's convicted, you'll never leave here, never marry me - and I love that you're so loyal, sweet, but - well, think of how it looks. The whole world has practically condemned her already, if she's convicted by a jury and you go on visiting her… It could damage our careers. If it hasn't already. You know how quickly things move on Broadway. If we stay here much longer, we might be forgotten about completely."

So Rachel had sighed and turned back to him, smiling brightly, and said, "I understand. You're restless here. And it's not fair to make you wait with me. I can't leave Quinn now, but...you should go back to New York."

It had only taken a few more proddings, brave smiles, and loving statements to push past Jesse's few protests on that count. He was far too eager to go back to put up much of a fight, even to take her along with him. And Rachel couldn't blame him. Lima was not his home, had never been his home; and Quinn was not his friend, had never been his friend. He was only staying in a town he despised with nothing to do for her, and Rachel was stirred with renewed affection for him after her surge of anger the previous night. But accompanying the affection was guilt. Guilt that she hadn't quite forgiven him, in spite of the sincerity of his words that morning, his regret for speaking of Quinn so cruelly, in spite of understanding why, now, he had imploded. She probably would have, too, sitting around Carmel for months at a time with nothing to do. Jesse needed the activity of New York just like Rachel did - and perhaps the time apart would allow her to forgive him after all.

But Rachel hadn't exactly been using his absence to think about Jesse at all. In fact, after briefly explaining Jesse's return to New York to her fathers, she put it out of her mind entirely, and instead set herself to her new tasks. She and Jesse had decided the continuing cost of a hotel suite was too much to bother with, especially for only one person, and so she moved her suitcase and legal books into her father's guest room on the east side of town, closest to Marysville, though they had both begged her company - she simply said it would be ridiculous for her to keep moving back and forth and that Daddy had more room at his new apartment for her, and that settled it.

So Rachel spent the next week in the pursuit of distraction - fruitlessly reading the legal books with a dictionary at her side, watching TV and eating dinner with Daddy, visiting Dad with sugar cookies, stopping at Kitty and Artie's, ignoring messages from those members of glee club she was no longer speaking to, answering those she was - but none of it stopped her thinking about Quinn or the upcoming visitation she had scheduled. Rachel had remembered so much in the time since last month, remembered smiles and laughs and teases - moments she had erased from her view of Quinn entirely, and now, melding together with the vision of Quinn she already had and the renewed eagerness to be a friend to Quinn - a real and true friend, who knew her inside and out - and the knowledge that she had something special with Quinn, something even her oldest friend did not -

Rachel no longer felt so utterly drained by the remembering, by the flashes of pearly white teeth each time Rachel made Quinn laugh, for whatever reason, or by the thoughts of other things, not memories, but things that could be - Quinn lying out on a beach towel, her golden hair splayed around her head like rays of sunlight, smiling up at Rachel while she teased a violet grape at her pink lips -

It sent quivering through her bones thinking these things and redness to her cheeks, but Rachel was becoming an expert at casting blame to Santana and McCormack, to their subliminal messages, and she called the imaginings friendly, only painted wrongly by Santana and McCormack's suggestions. So the imaginings and the remembering rejuvenated her spirit, more and more the closer she came to the day she would see Quinn again, so that she woke with such a grin that morning her father teased that he would be doing random drug tests from now on.

Rachel only laughed him off and set off straight for the shower, determined again to look her best, the nerves that Quinn might not like to see someone looking so well while she herself was only allowed standard issue prison clothing forgotten in her excitement. So she layered her hair in waves and made sure to pop her eyes and lips with the careful application of makeup and dressed herself in a polka-dot shirtdress with a slim buckle at her waistline. Only after she had received the puzzled assurance of her daddy that she looked 'like a star' and most emphatically _not_ 'like a dalmatian puppy' did she bounce out the door for the hour-long drive to Marysville and Quinn.

On her way, twenty minutes early, Rachel stopped at a Tim Hortons she had seen on her last trip, delightedly ordering four coffees - one for herself, one for the guard at the outpost, one for the receptionist, and one for Quinn. It didn't occur to her until she arrived at the front desk, in her enthusiasm, that they may not let her bring the coffee into the visitor's room. And the receptionist's dead-eyed stare wasn't encouraging in the least.

Still, Rachel pushed on, grinning brightly and passing over the steaming cuppa. "Good morning! I'm Rachel Berry, I'm here to see an inmate, Quinn Fabray? Is it all right if I bring this in to her?" She waved the remaining two drinks at the wary woman, and then encouragingly at the untouched cup in front of her. "Oh, that one's for you! I thought a good strong cup of coffee might do the wonderful staff here some good; it's such a good morning for coffee, isn't it?"

The woman - Janet, Rachel read on a silver nameplate - blinked up at her, but took the cup. "Um, thanks… We have to check everything that comes into contact with the prisoners, but I guess that would be all right…"

"Oh, of course!" Rachel pushed the cups forward, almost sloshing them in her jittery eagerness - the sooner they got this over with, the sooner she could see Quinn. "I assure you I haven't slipped any files in them."

The joke passed over with only a slight smile from Janet, but it was enough for Rachel to practically bound over to the guard wielding the metal detector in triumph. And, finally, the coffees and herself cleared, a guard guided her down that very same hallway she'd traveled down a month before, and her stomach jounced so wildly she wasn't certain ingesting _anything_ , let alone coffee, was a good idea - her fingers were trembling - oh, God, she was going to see Quinn again - would she smile? - would she be cold at first, like last time? - would she -

There they stood, at the window again. The guard had been talking; he was looking at her expectantly, for confirmation, his hand on the metal handle. Rachel smiled quickly at him, and he pushed open the door, and there was Quinn in her blinding orange uniform and her loose gold ponytail, with her tired hunched shoulders Rachel wanted to rub and her black-circled hazel eyes Rachel wanted to close with kisses - innocent, friendly kisses. And a smile.

Rachel beamed, soaring forward - no contact with the prisoner - and setting down the coffee cups, passing one over to Quinn's side of the table, and she didn't expect her voice to be so soft when she said, "Good morning."

"Good morning," Quinn returned, matching her tone, and glanced down at the coffee cup. "What's this?"

"Breakfast!" She giggled, Quinn smiling at her wryly, and amended, "Well, it's the traditional beverage, anyway. I don't like to visit empty-handed."

Quinn's fingers curled around the cardboard, tugging the cup closer to her chained wrists. "Thank you."

"Maybe next time I can slip in some donuts. I did a little sucking up to the receptionist, she might let me."

Rachel pulled at her bottom lip, trying to restrain herself from smiling so widely. She had missed Quinn so painfully, to see her again was like an aphrodisiac - at least until she noticed that, in spite of Quinn's tiny smiles to acknowledge and please Rachel, in spite of the spark in her amber eyes, there was no happiness in her. She wasn't laughing. She was still chained and trapped and Rachel was weighed with guilt for being so happy when - how could she have been so insensitive? She reached without thinking for Quinn's hand, stopping short of touching the long fingers - Quinn's nails were growing long, too. One she had chewed off, Rachel spied the jagged edges and grimaced.

"Quinn," she breathed, and it felt like her last, but she pulled herself from the brink of another crying jag. "Have you slept at all?"

Quinn smiled again, but Rachel could see the effort behind the movement of her muscles. "Of course, I'm fine."

"Don't. Don't say that." Rachel drummed her fingers lightly on the metal, aching to stretch just a little farther, even just for a graze against Quinn's skin. "Why do you think you have to be strong for me?"

Quinn's gold lashes fluttered, and she stared. "Maybe it's for me."

She shook her head, without looking away from hazel eyes. "I don't think so."

The connection was broken by Quinn's head dropping, refusing to hold it, and Rachel felt disappointment settle deep in her stomach. But then pale fingers lowered from the coffee cup, almost brushing Rachel's own hand, and she pulled in her breath lest it somehow scare Quinn away -

"What happened to your wrist?"

Rachel jerked her hand away. Why hadn't she worn a cardigan, a long-sleeved dress? Anything to hide the raw skin around her tattoo. "It's nothing."

Quinn's lip was curved wryly when she looked back up, and Rachel read her thoughts in her eyes - "If you can't be open with me, I can't be open with you" - but she was far too reserved to say it. Rachel cleared her throat.

"It's a bad habit," she amended. "I rub it when I get anxious."

"I'm sorry this situation has caused you so much stress," Quinn murmured then, and her lip had relaxed, her eyes read only concern now.

"Would you please not apologize for this?" Rachel bit on her bottom lip shortly. "And would you please not worry about me? You have enough to deal with."

Quinn's head dropped again, her voice lower than Rachel had ever heard it - but hear it she did, when Quinn whispered, "I'm always going to worry about you," and she was so warmed by the words, she was nearly beaming again, but she caught herself.

"Has any progress been made at all?" she questioned instead, clearing her throat with a sip of coffee. "I spoke with your attorney and that detective, Detective Graham, last week, but neither one of them would give me even a hint of what's happening with your case."

Quinn's pony waved from side to side before she peered back up at Rachel, tired all over again. "McCormack's trying to build a case, but… He suggested I take a plea bargain yesterday, I'm still mulling it over; what did he want with you?"

"I - he says he's making me a character witness for you - you can't take a plea bargain, you shouldn't be punished at all, you didn't do anything wrong!"

Rachel's panting panic was answered only by a violence in Quinn's eyes she'd never seen before. The tired, spiritless woman was gone, replaced by a ferocious warrior, her knuckles clenched to bleach white and her jaw muscle sticking out as she ground teeth together, and her eyes seemed to crackle, though Rachel knew that to be impossible. And as taken aback as she was, she felt oddly unafraid. Only concerned, and again, she wanted to reach out and take Quinn's hands in her own.

"What's wrong? What did I say?" she heard her own voice, hushed, and Quinn's eyes found her again, focused and raw with anger - but quickly tempered with a softness Rachel couldn't help but smile at.

"Nothing, you didn't say anything wrong, I'm sorry. A plea bargain may be my only way to avoid a life sentence. Or a death sentence."

The room spun.

"Rachel." The chain jerked. "It may not come to that."

"It can't," she heard herself again, voice thick and slow - Rachel shook her head rapidly. "It can't come to that; you _have_ to be released; I know I haven't been the best friend to you, but how can I ever be if - Quinn, I can't lose you. I _need_ you."

Tears were pouring down Rachel's cheeks in parallel rivers, and Quinn was straining her wrists against the handcuffs, reaching for her - Rachel grabbed onto her hands tightly, until she could feel the straight, hard bones in her palms, until the joints of Quinn's knuckles were stabbing into her own palms, until she felt too real to be slipping away, the way Rachel felt she was.

"It's gonna be okay," Quinn's voice came, breaking through the storm to bring on the quiet, and they sat there silently holding while Rachel alternated between sobs and breathing exercises and Quinn let her break her fingers without complaint.

Only once she had gained her bearings back did Rachel realize she was breaking one of the cardinal rules here, touching Quinn, and she carefully, reluctantly let go to wipe her cheeks free of tears. Quinn was only watching her, turning her coffee between her hands. And in spite of the steady expression on her face, Rachel could read, now that her own emotions weren't swamping her, the concern tensing her entire body.

"I'm sorry," Rachel sighed, snuffing. "I swear I'll make it through without crying one of these times." Her lips refused to lift more than a fraction for a smile.

"It's okay." Quinn breathed in - but she said nothing, glancing back down at the coffee cup.

"So, um...I-I forgot, Mercedes sends her love. She and Sam had to head back to LA almost right away; she had a concert and he had a pre-game or training or something." She waved a hand dismissively, trying again to smile.

Quinn nodded. She was still staring at her cup. "That's good."

"They should be here with you. Mercedes even said so."

"No, they're right to get on with their lives." Quinn looked at her then, finally - and Rachel recognized the look in her eye all too well. "You should, too. You should go back to New York."

Rachel hesitated. "I can't."

That eyebrow went up. "There's nothing for you here."

"Except you."

Quinn wasn't expecting this response, evidently, because the coffee cup went from halfway to her mouth to the metal tabletop and the lid popped off. Quinn's orange top was colored brown in an instant, and the remainder of it spread over the table and directly into Rachel's lap. It was so hot she squealed, and Quinn's teeth bound together, and all rules were forgotten as Rachel dug in her purse for a napkin and leapt over to Quinn's side of the table, dabbing at her face and neck.

"Oh, God, are you okay? It was piping hot when I got it, I can't believe it's still steaming like this! You're going to burn if we don't get this off."

And without thinking, Rachel's fingers found the bottom hem of Quinn's top and lifted it up to her collarbone, her other hand swiping with the napkin in fierce stripes on reddened skin until Quinn's fingers closed around her wrist. The chain clinked.

"Rachel."

She was touching Quinn. Quinn, half-naked, porcelain skin, stung skin, silver scars, long, hard muscles. Had they gotten more toned since Rachel had last seen her like this? For a moment, her mind struggled between the image of Quinn drenched in blood that horrible night, the image of her lying out in a red bikini along the beach eating grapes, and the image of Quinn here, now, breathing hard and holding her wrist in an unrelenting grip, Quinn very real and very beautiful and very soft - so soft Rachel couldn't help petting the skin under her fingers, the skin of Quinn's chest. Quinn's chest, encased below in a grey standard issue prison bra, and her heart beating against Rachel's palm, the napkin dropped to her lap.

And then there were Quinn's eyes, watching her, not with a glare, not with a sparkle - but awed. Like a person who has wanted, prayed, hoped, all their life to see a unicorn, knowing unicorns don't exist, and now, for the first time - there was a unicorn in front of her. And Rachel felt like one, as ridiculous as it sounded, under Quinn's gaze. She felt pure, angelic, mystical - equal to Quinn, for once in her life. Not better, not worse. Equal.

The campfire that burned in Rachel for Quinn and only Quinn surged, flew up into a bonfire, but it wasn't happy there this time. It burned higher and higher until it caught fire to the forest and there it raged on and spread over Rachel so that it was all-consuming, too out of control now to be tamed or to die out as it once had, too bright and wild to escape notice - and she loved Quinn.

"No contact with the prisoner!"

A new hard hand was grasping Rachel's shoulder, jerking her away, and a guard in grey bent over Quinn to unlock her from the table -

"No! No, please don't take her away from me," Rachel begged, grabbing onto his elbow. "It was my fault, she would've burned, please!"

The guard paused then, to observe the spill and Quinn's raised eyebrows. "Well, regardless, we have to get her a new uniform."

He pulled Quinn up by the handcuffs, and Rachel flew into his path, pleading, "Will you bring her back after? Please...I only get to see her once a month."

The guard grunted, eyeing her clasped hands, her wide eyes. "Fine. Stay here." And as he pulled Quinn from the room, he grumbled, "If you wanted conjugal visits, you should've gotten yourself arrested in California."

But Rachel was too ecstatic to blush - and Quinn only stared back at her, still seeing the impossible.


	13. Language

**Language**

It was unfortunate that the bloom of new love could be so easily destroyed, euphoria deflated by the stroke of a pin. And in Rachel's case, it took only a few seconds, staring at the door through which Quinn had been dragged, for her to realize that loving Quinn was nothing to be happy about. For one thing, Quinn was in prison, and might yet have to remain there, trial pending, for the rest of her days. And what could Rachel do with her heart in prison? Half her heart, anyway, because there was still Jesse, who by rights and the ring on her finger owned the other half, whether it clamored for Quinn or not. She was overcome at once by guilt and despair, and found herself sinking back to the silver chair and its cold embrace, the grey walls offering no comfort to her searching eyes, forgetting entirely about her scalded thighs and the ugly brown splotch on her dress in light of her new predicament.

Once upon a time, when Rachel fell head over heels for Finn at sixteen, their love had seemed difficult, tragic. He was the captain of the football team; she was the loser of the school. He had a girlfriend, a pregnant girlfriend, the most beautiful girlfriend in the world. Rachel had only her voice, not beauty, not athleticism, not popularity, not tact, not fashion sense, not anything to offer him but songs and her love. It was Romeo and Juliet, Cyrano and Roxane, Zach and Lainey - he crossed the battle lines of high school for her, suffered ridicule and the loss of the most beautiful woman in the world for her.

But now...in love with Quinn Fabray, the most beautiful woman in the world, straight, incarcerated, and Rachel practically hitched to Jesse's wagon. This was difficult. Every door to a happy ending slammed shut to her seeking, ever hopeful mind with a deafening, final clang. The best she could wish for now was that Quinn would be acquitted, that they could become the friends they always should have been, and that somehow, her feelings would become more appropriate over time. It wasn't a bad scenario, to be sure, but Quinn's case was going poorly and Rachel felt irrevocably changed. It was impossible, of course. Everyone could change, and if she could change into something, it couldn't be that difficult to change out of it, could it? How had it even happened in the first place?

A week before this mess - no, longer, because for weeks Rachel had hung on Quinn's safety and her agreement to appear at the wedding - months ago, she saw Quinn occasionally, for brunch or a party or a glee club emergency, and Rachel was always happy to see her. They spoke quietly with each other for a few moments at each meeting, filling each other in on recent events - or rather, Rachel filled Quinn in on her recent events, with Quinn providing her ever wise advice and her everlasting support. Rachel always felt soothed afterward, now that she knew Quinn only advised in her best interest, and that she often knew better than Rachel in matters of business and social structure. But as pleased as Rachel was by the interactions, by the mere fact of Quinn's friendship, there had never been this - this feeling, this urgency, this consuming need. The difference, she realized, lay in the situation, the fear that had her rubbing Neosporin on her wrist because she couldn't stop worrying - each time she saw Quinn could be the last. So burgeoning feelings could wait no longer, because Quinn would not, as Rachel had unconsciously come to accept, always be there. She was being taken away. There was no time left for her fire to grow, slow, healthy - no time for her relationship with Jesse to run its course.

Rachel dug her nails into her palms in self admonition. Jesse was not a stop on a tour; it was only her love making her think this way, the same way she used to think Quinn was a pit stop for Finn on his way to her. Jesse was perfect for her in so many ways; how could she not love someone so similar to her? And yet Quinn was so different, so...foreign. In fact, they were all wrong for each other, even if Quinn wasn't straight.

Quinn led with logic; Rachel led with emotion. Though there were times when Quinn felt so strongly it dominated against her will and she snapped, seized an arm, slapped a cheek, planted evidence - but that was so long ago, and it was all anger. Quinn had mastered her anger in growing up and her mad antics had disappeared with it. She was now forever and always the calm, quiet, sarcastic woman in the back, stern of face, unreadable - and Rachel had never grown beyond her emotions because she had never tried. There were even times when Quinn's reticence bothered her; she almost preferred when Quinn would fly off the handle with her, because at least then she knew where they stood. Except Quinn found ways to show Rachel where they stood, didn't she?

Not with the obvious, grand gestures Jesse presented to her. Jesse was akin to a romance novel hero in that regard. He brought her roses, her favorite food, wine, for a picnic in their hotel room; he surprised her with a carriage ride home from rehearsals on Valentine's Day; he rented out the Gershwin Theater and pulled in the entire cast on their production to serenade her with You Are Woman as he bowed on one knee and presented her with a diamond - they were ovations that took her breath away at the time. But Quinn was different. She gave Rachel train tickets to make sure they remained friends; she welcomed Rachel's hugs with open arms; she teased Rachel each time she learned something new about her. And Rachel knew she cared, without even thinking about these moments, so ingrained in her she needed no big gestures, no romance novel care. Because Quinn had her own language, and scary as it might be at times, Rachel was learning it, feeling fulfilled by it without even being aware of it.

But Quinn was still so calm, so passionless, while Rachel thrived on her zest for life - except that wasn't true, either. Quinn had all the passion in the world, she simply held it back, until she couldn't any longer, and Rachel shuddered. If Quinn could burst from frustration in the ferocious way she had at junior prom, what would she be like after resisting her own desires?

Rachel admonished herself again. Quinn was not a sex object. Too many people had thought of her in only that way, or only defined her by her mistakes, as their glee friends evidently did. Rachel refused to see only a tree in the forest. Besides, it was unlikely she would ever experience that particular tree, unless Quinn decided, as she had a few years ago, that she would like to have some harmless fun again, and even with Santana out of the running, Rachel suspected she wouldn't make the short list. Her renewed dislike of Santana increased, almost without her awareness.

There was no use anyway. The thing to focus on now was proving Quinn's innocence. Not that Rachel had any idea how to do that. The legal books she'd buried herself in since Quinn's arrest had been utterly useless to her. _She_ had been useless to Quinn, except for becoming a character witness for her case, but that part wouldn't come until the trial, which had yet to be set. She needed to find some other way to make herself useful; she couldn't help the community theater as Jesse had, her heart wouldn't be in it.

Her train of thought never reached its conclusion. The guard brought Quinn back in, a fresh new blinding orange top covering the skin Rachel had been familiarizing herself with only a short time ago - and Rachel beamed in spite of herself, delighted by the fire warming her insides the moment hazel eyes fell on her. But this time, Quinn's expression was not awed, wondering, but closed to Rachel. It was of no concern, though. Quinn would tell Rachel how she was feeling in her own time, her own way.

The guard wiped down the table with a washcloth and cleared the spilled cup in a swipe before he set about chaining Quinn's handcuffs to the table again, and Rachel bit her tongue against her protests.

When he straightened, leveling scowling eyes down at them, he made his orders short: "Don't let me catch you touching again." But he paused, halfway to the door, and grunted, "And I apologize for...'manhandling' you, Ms. Berry."

Before she could recover from her surprise, he had gone. Quinn, of course, sat looking suspiciously innocent, hands folded together and golden head bowed, and Rachel smiled with new warmth.

"Quinn," she called, pulling herself forward.

"You didn't have to stay," she said abruptly, lifting her gaze at once.

Rachel raised both eyebrows at her. "Well, as I told your warden, I only get to see you once a month. I'm going to take all the time I can get."

Quinn's thumbs were revolving. "Your dress is ruined."

Rachel couldn't stop the laugh that burst from her middle, even as it sent Quinn's eyes downcast again. "Do I really need to make you a list of the things that are important to me, so you know where you rank? Because my dress doesn't even come close."

"New York - "

"Can wait. It's waited before."

Quinn eyed her, tried again, "For glee club, but - "

"I'm definitely making you a list."

Quinn breathed a long sigh. "This...could take months. Years. It's not fair to you to have to stay away from what you love just to visit me once a month. You need to stay present to stay famous; I don't want to cost you - "

"How about I decide what's fair to me? And anyway, what happened to your faith in my talent?" Rachel smiled impishly, unable to help her joyful teasing. "I'll have my fame back in no time, if I've lost it at all, but I want my friend back first."

Quinn was struggling, Rachel could see. The arguments that sprang to mind had already been cast aside, and now Quinn was working to find new angles, ways to convince Rachel to turn back, go home. Rachel adored her for it - appreciated it even more now that she realized, it was Quinn's language. Quinn telling her to never let anything stand in the way of her dreams, or her happiness. Placing Rachel's needs above her own. But just as there was no use in Rachel pondering what life in a relationship with Quinn would be like, there was no use in Quinn trying to convince her to leave.

But she was trying anyway, pushing out, with difficulty - she wouldn't even look Rachel in the eye as she spoke now, "Rachel, if everything is okay...then there's no reason for you to see me."

Rachel only smiled. "Nice try. But pushing me away has never really worked, has it?"

She sighed, leaned back in her chair. "I just want you to be happy, get on with your life."

"Well, I can't without you."

Quinn's attention was caught again - but fortunately she wasn't holding a coffee cup this time. "You don't need me."

"Yes, I do. You have no idea what you give to me, do you? Just knowing that Quinn Fabray is my friend makes me feel like I can do anything. You're my reality check, my supporter. You always have been, even when I didn't want to hear you. Do you know how much I love the way you push me to face my future, to grab my dreams and never let go, to do whatever it is that will make me happy? And how you question me, you challenge me to think, so that I'm never making the easy choice, always making sure it's really what I want? You give me confidence, and happiness, and I need you. You're my best friend."

Rachel's fingers had crept steadily across the table, aching to stroke and touch those long pale hands so close and so far away from her. Quinn's hand in hers - how long had it been since they'd held hands, really and truly? The image of a sympathetic pair of hazel eyes and a wheelchair, the feeling of silky hair against her cheek fluttered across her mind, but she shook her head of it. New memories, they would make new memories when Quinn was free, and Rachel would hold her warm, strong hand without tears for once.

Quinn didn't appear to be thinking along similar lines. Her own hands remained folded together, tight and unyielding to Rachel's silently begging fingers - but she stared, as intently as anyone had ever stared at Rachel, more so. Her eyes were unwavering, so much so Rachel was reminded of a majestic golden cat watching a songbird dance unknowingly in front of it - but Rachel wasn't afraid to be caught. She wanted to be now, more than anything, to be caught in Quinn's claws and kiss her pursed, puckered lips - and the sensation of it all, its newness and intensity, left her shuddering, until Quinn's low voice disrupted her.

"Then why won't you listen to me, and go back to New York?"

Rachel's lips twisted in a wry smile, a generally unfamiliar feeling, but at the moment, right at home on her lips. "I know this is difficult for you, but I want you to try to be selfish for a minute," she paused, softening, sobering, "and tell me. Do you really want me to go back and stop visiting you?"

That unwavering gaze shot away, thumbs pressing tightly together. "It doesn't matter what I want."

She shook her head right back, lurched closer, wanting to squeeze pain and cruelty from Quinn's past, from her eyes. "Yes, it does. I know people have been telling you for years, intentionally or not, that it doesn't, that you're even selfish for thinking it does, but you matter to me. And I want to know. Does it help to see me?"

Quinn was utterly silent; Rachel even worried, for a moment, that she had stopped breathing. Her eyes seemed permanently trained on her own fingers, turning white as a high sun against each other. She didn't want to answer, Rachel realized, and knew she had won even before Quinn let out a whisper, so faint it was only the silence of the room that allowed her to hear it.

"Yes."

Rachel nodded, sparing her a repetition despite the jump for joy in her chest. "Then I'm staying." She paused, relishing before she carried on, seeking some other use, "Is there anything else I can do for you? I could bring you some books or make some of my famous sugar cookies or maybe send you CDs, I could have everyone contribute - well, everyone I'm still speaking to - do they let you listen to - "

Her enthusiasm was just gaining speed when Quinn waved her fingers, dismissive. "No, there's nothing…"

"Oh." And Rachel deflated, pouting at her own hands now.

But then Quinn spoke up again, clearing her throat quietly, a hint of that playful note in her voice again, "I just want you to go home, get the stain out of your dress, put some aloe on your legs and your wrist, and maybe audition for something in Columbus or Cincinnati while you're determined to be here."

Rachel dared a glance - Quinn's eyes were sparkling, and she beamed in spite of herself.

"Okay, I think I can manage that."

The door opened behind her. "Time's up."

Rachel bit down on her lip to keep from protesting, from saying, 'No, you'll just have to bunk me with her, because I'm not going.' But perhaps she could do more good for Quinn out of prison than in, and she had to do something. With Jesse or not, Quinn was her best friend, and Rachel couldn't just sit around anymore trying to find something, anything, in law books she didn't understand. That, at least, was something she didn't have to feel guilty about. The rush of unbridled joy when Quinn smiled at her, encouraging, on the other hand…

Newly determined, brushing aside her guilt - she could think about it tomorrow - Rachel stood and paced for the door - next month, she would see Quinn next month - and stopped for one last look.

"And Quinn?"

Quinn stared up at her, expectant.

Rachel gnawed on a smile and lowered her hand. "Dress," she raised it just above her head, "Glee club," a fraction higher, "New York," and at last, as high as she could raise it, "You."

And then she left, a skip in her step.


	14. Hope

**Hope**

"I told you _not_ to involve Rachel in this."

McCormack was only one step into the room, but that was as long as Quinn's anger stretched, particularly when she had been waiting days to confront him with this rage at his betrayal, sliding behind her back to play on Rachel's eagerness to help. Quinn had been tempted, in those first moments of blind, seething fury, to fire him on the spot, and if he had been there, and she had been sixteen again, that was just what she would have done. But impulse had faded where wrath had not, and so Quinn sat stewing in her cell, waiting for McCormack to return from his trip conferring with experts, having the police reports reanalyzed. And now she had him, staring dumbly at her with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

"And I told you I needed to know everything," he returned at length, setting his briefcase on the steel table with a thud. His untarnished fingers found his tie, loosening it a fraction as he took his place across from her and scowled, unimpressed now with her crackling rage. "So why didn't you tell me you've been paying for your parents' livelihood for the past two years? And why didn't you mention that you have a personal relationship with Carole Hummel?"

Quinn hadn't known from the start of things that Carole Hummel was the one to call the police, the infamous witness who had her guilt so locked down. McCormack had told her a week after her arrival at the reformatory while they were reviewing her case again - "You were identified in a lineup by the witness who heard arguing and saw you leave the house covered in blood, a Mrs. Carole Hummel" - and her blood had run cold, but she had said nothing. Not to McCormack, not to the police, not to anyone. She excused herself - what would be the point in the murderer contesting the witness' claims - but the truth of the matter lay in her memories, in a loyalty that had never quite faded since Finn passed away. She had shown him so little respect in life; the least she could do was to respect him in death, and that included showing honor to his mother.

To McCormack, however, Quinn pursed her lips and shrugged. "I have a lot of people under my care, not just my parents. And Mrs. Hummel and I haven't spoken in years."

McCormack was shaking his head adamantly, puffing at her. "The woman has a grudge, we can use it to prove bias against you - "

"No." Quinn's stomach churned; Finn was staring at her from the corner, hands stuffed deep in his khaki pants, watching her dolefully.

"Look, I know it's a risk bringing up the cheating and the lie, but if we paint it right, we can bring up Puckerman's record, play the sympathy card, maybe imply her grief is - "

She shook her head until her neck twinged in protest. " _No_."

His hands hit the table, mouth twisting in irritation. "You realize the only way we're going to convince that jury you're innocent at this point is if we discredit her as a witness."

"A lot of other people saw me afterward, it wouldn't matter."

"But she's the only one who heard arguing," McCormack returned, stabbing his pen at his legal pad. "We have nothing solid. You don't have an alibi, there's no evidence of anyone else's presence in that house, and no other suspects are being looked at. So we have to convince the jury that, a, you are a loving, supportive daughter, b, you are a woman of good character, and c, that Mrs. Hummel is lying about hearing an argument. And I'm going to try to do that, but you have to let me do my goddamn job."

Quinn's teeth ground together. "You can do your job and leave Mrs. Hummel alone."

He was seething with frustration. "If I don't use your relationship, the DA will. Only he won't spin it in your favor, he'll twist the knife of that dead kid until there's not a dry eye in the benches."

"Then let him."

"I'm sorry, do you _want_ to be convicted?"

Quinn pinned him with narrow eyes, digging her nails into her hands. "Stick to the murder. Leave the rest out of it."

"I can see you've got a lot of misapprehensions about the legal system," McCormack grunted, and he wrestled with his tie in aggravation, loosening it up even further. "Let me tell you, this is going to get personal one way or another. You've got a colorful past and the DA is going to use it. There's no lawyer in the world who wouldn't. So you can either let him make you the villain, or you can let me make you a tragedy. It won't be nice and it won't be pretty, but it could get you acquitted."

McCormack made sense, as usual. Quinn knew he did, of course, because her brain worked in a similar way. She'd followed it, too, the justifications, the rationalizations, all in a bid to win, or simply to survive. She slipped news of Santana's implants to Coach Sylvester just to get back on top; she played on the sympathies of her classmates while in a wheelchair to win prom queen; she hid her misdeeds from Biff to achieve financial security, back when her mother told her all she had was her college fund and that everything else was draining quickly. Quinn was an expert in taking the quickest, cleverest route to achieve her goal, damning whoever was in her way, no matter who they were. It was how she ran her business - McCormack was even right about that. Her dealings were all legitimate, but she had still stepped on a few heads to climb to the top.

Still, that was business, not personal. Quinn had still never cheated anyone, never blackmailed anyone, never destroyed a career or a life in her quest for greatness. She hadn't had to hurt anyone that way, and she liked it. She enjoyed stretching her business acumen to rake in more success, more wealth, for herself and her staff and her clients. Her conscience didn't prick at her as it did now, when McCormack was tempting her back to high school.

Of course, it wasn't only him. A lot of things were tempting Quinn back to high school at the moment, not the least of which was the prison life she was adapting to. It was nothing like any life she'd ever lived before, and certainly not like her life in her loft in New York City. There she had everything she could ever desire - most of all comfort and space. The prison was so cramped in comparison to her wide, open loft with its Italian furniture, Swiss clocks, French food, Spanish paintings, Parisian clothes - she lived like a queen in New York. She woke up against a goose feather pillow, wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets, exercised in Lululemon fitness wear on a set of workout machines made in Germany, showered in hot, purified water, slid on clothes so soft she felt naked in them, cooked breakfast and dinner on stainless steel counters with the full collection of kitchenware from Williams-Sonoma, managed her investments on a touch screen built into her table, trekked to work with a cup of Fazenda Santa Ines coffee from Brazil, directed talent agents and scouts and negotiated contracts with vendors and theaters and recording studios on the fifth floor of a building in Midtown Manhattan, which she'd had renovated, redesigned, and redecorated by Richard Meier and Amy Lau, lounged on a duvet back home in the evening with the latest best seller, and then slipped back into Egyptian cotton to start all over again.

Here, Quinn woke against a starchy pillow and swung down from her bunk to a cold concrete floor, squatted surreptitiously in the corner toilet before Carol woke, marched to the showers once the cells were unlocked to undress and soap up among a dozen other nude women cackling at her - "don't drop the soap!" - ate meals on metal trays with dulled utensils - dry, tough food that crumbled when you stabbed it, clogged in your throat until you washed it down - most of which was stolen from her by the other inmates, still cackling, sat in a lumpy chair reading books with pages ripped out or falling out while illiterate inmates read aloud with a counselor, worked out in the exercise ring, running the track or dunking basketballs or boxing with women who hit too hard and left her bruised and sore, and at the end of the day, jumped back up on her sheets, plastic in texture, to start all over again.

She had pampered and spoiled herself, she realized now, and almost felt the other inmates were justified in calling her a Rich Bitch. Almost. The harsh life without comforts or hygiene or space left her aggravated, brought her hardness to the surface again, and Quinn found it more difficult by the day not to let her anger rule her as it once had. Not to leap back up when a grinning boxing partner sent her sprawling to the ground and lay punch after punch on her until she, too, was bruised - and begging Quinn to stop. Not to hiss back at every insult until she'd reduced the other women to desperate tears. Not to sabotage them in her clever little ways, slipping cigarettes in their food as she walked by, tipping off the guards on all their secret hiding spots, leaving spiders she found in the yard outside on a particularly arachnophobic inmate's bed. Not to be cruel and vicious, like in high school, like McCormack was asking her to be now - or asking her to let him be, on her behalf.

The desire for freedom, to go back to her comfy life and curl away from this nightmare, battled with Quinn's conscience. All she could see was Mrs. Hummel at Finn's funeral. And all she could hear, as was often the case in times of moral crisis for Quinn, was Rachel's soft, encouraging voice, "You're better than you know."

Quinn shook her head mildly. "I want you to leave Rachel and Mrs. Hummel alone."

McCormack's nose curled most unattractively, but he went on, "It's your neck. Now what about these other people 'under your care'? Who are they and would they be willing to testify that you provide for them?"

She gnawed on her bottom lip for a moment, then listed, "Becky Jackson until Sue Sylvester, my old cheerleading coach, hired her, but I'd rather you left her alone. Um, Puck's family, while he's on duty. My ex-boyfriend, Sam's family, too. And my daughter and her adoptive mother, but I want you to leave them out of it, too."

"Naturally," he sneered back at her, but he was writing. "All right. So I have some good news from my friends in Cleveland. They're taking a closer look at the evidence, but my blood splatter analyst took a glance at the crime scene photos and he doesn't think a person your height could have left that spray pattern."

Quinn was stirred to attention. "Why would the Lima analyst lie?"

McCormack shrugged. "Heavy caseloads lead to inaccuracies; you're not the only murderer in Lima. And I looked into him; he's fresh from college, just hired after university. Inexperienced. It's possible he made a mistake and didn't want to own up. Or maybe he was bribed, who the hell knows? But it's a start."

A start. For the first time since falling in a pool of blood, Quinn felt...hopeful. It was tentative, just like the light of Rachel's eyes on her, so impassioned, so - different than how Rachel had ever looked at her before - and she feared it could be wiped out with a puff of breath, cast back into darkness. But it was a start.


	15. Triangle

**Triangle**

Rachel, for all the love triangles she had been a part of throughout the years, had never suffered the misfortune of loving two people at once. In the past, it had always been a case of like and love. She liked Noah; she loved Finn. She liked Jesse; she loved Finn. She liked Blaine; she loved Finn. She liked Brody; she loved Finn. She liked Sam; she loved Jesse. Now there was Jesse, and there was Quinn. She loved them both, and how could she not?

Jesse was her match, a dashing male diva, theatrical and ridiculously talented, and since high school, he had become a wonderful man. He was attentive, loving, understanding. He loved New York and Broadway as strongly as Rachel did, fiercely supported her career, and their voices - they created such a beautiful harmony, as seamless as their lovemaking. There was practically nothing she didn't have in common with Jesse. They fit.

And on the other hand, Quinn was, in many ways, Rachel's opposite. Not that Quinn wasn't ridiculously talented; she was, but not in the same way. And not that Quinn hadn't become a wonderful woman; she was. And she was attentive, understanding, and fiercely supportive of Rachel's career. And...their voices. They had only sung together for real that one time in junior year. Rachel had had to restrain her usual vocal gymnastics some, and Quinn had had to push her vocalizing, but in the end, it had sounded - beautiful. In fact, Rachel had enjoyed the practice, fitting herself to Quinn's voice, truly listening for her partner's sweet tones while they swept in crescendos and rounds together. It was just another memory of Quinn that Rachel now called forth and folded into the fires of her newfound passion.

But once again, Rachel found herself wondering in spite of herself, even if she could forget her devotion to Jesse, even if Quinn could flex her sexuality - could they make it work?

Rachel admonished herself for what felt like the hundredth time since leaving Quinn yesterday. It didn't matter, she told herself, again. Her focus needed to be on helping Quinn, though those thoughts were just as fruitless. She had yet to find any possible way she could contribute to ensuring Quinn's acquittal, or even to ease Quinn's time behind bars. Packages could be sent to inmates, but what could she send, and what would actually make it into Quinn's hands? Some of her famous sugar cookies, books, CDs - but these would only offer momentary comforts, and what if other prisoners saw them as reasons to turn hostile?

The idea had hardly occurred to Rachel before, that Quinn was not only suffering for being falsely accused and imprisoned, but that the other prisoners might not be so kind to her. Now that it had, however, it was all Rachel could think of, so every movie, TV episode, and song concerning the cruelty of prisoners sprang to her mind and replaced the persecuted protagonist with Quinn's stoic face, and she couldn't take even a bite of the pineapple fried rice her father placed before her at dinner. His concern over her was palpable, but much as she wanted to take refuge in his comforting arms and musical advice, he wouldn't understand. The concern over Quinn, yes; but the rest, the guilt, the heart torn in two - no.

Rachel couldn't think of many people who could, as a matter of fact, and those few who came to mind, she wasn't speaking to. Besides, even when Kurt and Blaine _had_ strayed from one another, it wasn't a case of their hearts splitting in two, but rather disobeying for a moment. Although - there was Mercedes. She had struggled for nearly a year between Shane and Sam; in some ways, her own personal Jesse and Quinn. True, she and Sam had split twice since then and now shared only friendship, but Mercedes had decided, and she had been through it. And she was on Facebook at that very moment.

On impulse, Rachel opened up their chat window.

'Hey.'

The answer blipped only a few moments later, 'Hey, diva! Did you see Quinn yesterday?'

'Yes; she said she's glad you went back to LA.'

'How did she seem?'

'Tired, but not admitting it.'

'So, like Quinn. ;)'

Rachel couldn't contain a smile. 'Yes, precisely.' She tapped without typing on the keys for a moment. 'I just wish there was something I could do to help.'

'I know how you feel.'

When it was clear nothing else was forthcoming, Rachel ventured on, 'I was thinking we could all make a CD for her, maybe with Keep Holding On and Lean On Me on it, for old times' sake.'

'That's a great idea!'

'I'm just worried the guards won't give it to her, or maybe the other inmates will try to steal it.'

'They'd have to be pretty desperate to want to steal a mixed CD.'

Rachel perked slightly. 'That's true. I wanted to send her some books, too, maybe I could record them instead.'

'I think she'd love that.'

It was only too bad, she reflected, that cookies couldn't be transferred to data. Still, this was a start, regardless of Quinn's insistence that there was nothing Rachel could do. Now she had a project, sending out the idea to everyone on Quinn's side in the club and then assigning songs - Sam could sing I'll Stand By You, and Joe could sing Lift; Noah would sound simply lovely for Cry On My Shoulder, if she could get ahold of him overseas - and while they were all recording their renditions, she could be developing her own little series of audio books for Quinn to listen to. Only…

'Do you know if there's anything Quinn hasn't read? I don't want her to have to listen to something she's been over twenty times.'

'I don't think it'll matter to her.' Then, a moment later, 'I know she loves e.e. cummings. Her only quote on Facebook is from him and she was always writing it in her notebooks.' Before Rachel could navigate to the proper page to discover this curious quote, Mercedes pasted it, '"your slightest look easily will unclose me  
though i have closed myself as fingers.'"

Rachel was quick to perform a Google search and soon had the entirety of the poem before her; Quinn's voice, unbidden, read it for her in a quiet husk, meandering over the affectionate words as gently as she sang, 'only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses.' Maybe Quinn had a ridiculously romantic side, after all… Her cheeks were full red, sunburnt, by the time she returned to Mercedes.

'Can I ask you something?'

'Sure.'

'How did you decide between Sam and Shane?'

The timestamp 'read 12:47 am' appeared before Mercedes finally typed again.

'Is there someone besides Jesse?'

Rachel gnawed at her lip, caught and instantly anxious - as if Jesse were looking over her shoulder, and she typed, but always deleted, her explanations, her denials until Mercedes ended her misery.

'It's okay if there is.'

Her breath released, but still she hesitated. 'Can this stay between us?'

'Of course.'

She bit into her abused lip one more time. 'I still love Jesse. But I recently realized, I have feelings for someone else, too. We haven't done anything - they don't even know how I feel. But I still feel guilty and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.'

'Are you sure it isn't just cold feet?'

'No - it isn't about the wedding. I didn't even realize until after we postponed it. I'm happy with Jesse. But I can't stop wondering what it would be like if we were together.'

'Maybe that's all it is. The unknown. You and Jesse pretty much have your lives mapped out, right?'

'But I loved that. I was excited to live it out.'

'You WERE excited?'

Rachel stroked the keys, wetting her lips. 'I don't know what I want anymore.'

'Would you leave Jesse to be with this other person?'

"Wow," she whispered to herself.

That was the real question, wasn't it? If Quinn wanted her, would she leave Jesse? Could she leave Jesse? As angry as she'd been with him when he left, as sore as she still was over it, Jesse was still her fiance, her love, her partner. They had a life together, a love together; he meant as much to her as Finn once had. He was her future, after all, her new person. The man she lived with, slept with, ate meals with, shopped with, sang with, planned with. They had everything in common, and what differences they had, they overcame together, with compromise and sacrifice. How crazy would Rachel have to be to leave that security, that sort of man? The sort of man who overwhelmed her with grand gestures and who made her happy.

Quinn made her feel special.

But there was nothing wrong with what she had with Jesse. Why leave it for, as Mercedes had said, the unknown? Why betray it? She could imagine the kind of lover Quinn would be all she wanted, but in truth, she had no idea. And none of it mattered anyway, because Quinn didn't want her, love her, like Jesse did.

'They don't want me, anyway.'

'How do you know?'

'Well, they never said anything.'

'You're engaged.'

Rachel couldn't argue with that, and a moment later, Mercedes took her breath away again.

'Besides, you're better off waiting for hell to freeze over than waiting for Quinn Fabray to tell you she loves you. And before you ask, your segue wasn't very subtle.'

Tentatively, she prompted, 'Does she? Love me, I mean.'

'I know she cares about you very much.'

The disappointment rooted itself deep, and it was with a frown that Rachel returned, 'So no.'

'I don't know, Rachel. Quinn doesn't talk about that kind of thing, even with me. I think the only time was when she asked me if I thought it would be unethical for her to go out with her assistant.'

'Ellen?' Rachel's spine stiffened, and as quickly as shock overtook her at the idea that Quinn was dating, dating women, hateful spite against the friendly, unassuming blonde assistant overwhelmed her. 'Did she go out with her?'

'I don't know. She never said anything after that.'

'And you didn't ask to find out?!'

'Okay, you don't need to go biting my head off over it. Besides, you've got no right to be jealous.'

Rachel bit off her own whine of irritation - Mercedes was right, again. What was she doing?

'I'm sorry.'

'It's okay.'

She pulled her lip. 'Can I ask you something else?'

'Sure.'

'How do you know Quinn loves you, if she never says it?'

'It's what she does.'

'Like what?'

'Like that time in sophomore year and I was on the Cheerios, and I passed out, Quinn spent the next month slipping granola bars to me anytime I started to look faint.'

'So, when she gave me those train tickets to come see her at Yale, that meant she loved me?'

'She didn't give anybody else train tickets.'

'I need to help her.'

'I get that, but what are you going to do outside of send her CDs? Short of stalking the police or her attorney, I don't see that there's much you can do.'

It didn't take long for Mercedes to add, 'Wait, I didn't say that,' but Rachel was already grinning.


	16. Wrong

**Wrong**

Graham was being followed. Of this, he was certain, primarily because whoever was doing the following was, in a word, conspicuous. The first day he noticed it was on his visit to the Fabrays' previously full-time maid, and every day thereafter, the car appeared directly behind him. It had, at first, given him some hope - perhaps he had stumbled upon something important, though he wasn't aware of what it was yet. Then he realized that no crime organization would ever send someone so clearly inexperienced for the job, which left him puzzled, but mainly unconcerned for the past three days. After all, they did nothing to impede his investigations, and on the second day, when he had sped off, sirens blaring, after a call to an accident, they hadn't followed, only appearing again on this day when he took off from the station to that oh-so familiar street where Russell Fabray had died.

It was Graham's second trip there in as many days, though for entirely different reasons. The maid, Mrs. Locke, resided in a small apartment across town - she corroborated Mrs. Fabray's testimony that the cheerleading trophies were polished in the basement, and she couldn't think of any reason any of the Fabrays would have taken it into the kitchen. Despite her termination, she seemed to hold no ill will toward any of them; or, at least, against the two women of the house. When Graham pressed her over Mr. Fabray and Ms. Fabray's relationship, the woman had gone tight-lipped and said simply, "He was no kind of father."

However, it was Mrs. Fabray, she revealed, who had laid her off, but she had taken pains to explain to Mrs. Locke that they simply couldn't afford her help anymore and had offered to write a letter of recommendation for her. Ms. Fabray had even sent her a sizable pension, Mrs. Locke added proudly. She, like Rachel Berry, seemed to believe staunchly in Quinn Fabray's innocence, insisting to him, "She's had her troubles, but she's no murderer. She babysat my son for free when I couldn't find anyone with low enough rates. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone as good with kids as her, and they have a sense about people."

Unfortunately, Mrs. Locke had about as little idea of Mr. Fabray's sour dealings as Rachel Berry had, but she did mention he used to have several hiding places for bottles of scotch he used whenever he was attending Alcoholics Anonymous. Graham managed to convince the chief, with this information alongside a few phone numbers from recognized dealers in Mr. Fabray's records, to allow a K-9 search of the house, though at first he resisted on the bounds that "the man's dead, what does it matter?" Only once Graham had explained his theory for the real murderer and pointed out that if they didn't search every avenue and one day the real killer appeared and they had put an innocent woman behind bars did Matthews agree.

Sure enough, in almost every spot Mrs. Locke had mentioned, the dogs found packets of marijuana - including in the kitchen, in a hidden panel under the sink. Mrs. Fabray had simply stood in the front yard throughout the search, holding Georgie to her chest. The same shame that had penetrated her facade the day of their first interview left her shoulders sagging, her head down - her eyes closed every time an officer passed by with a fresh bag to add to the pile. After a half hour, Graham coaxed her to accompany him to the Lima Bean with the promise of hot tea and the words, "There's no reason you have to see this."

Today, however, Graham would not be intruding on the grieving widow for a third time. No, the woman he would be seeing today was that infamous witness, Mrs. Carole Hummel, but as he pulled up to the curb alongside the Hummel home, that car went coasting by again - and this time he saw the puzzled face of his follower, Rachel Berry. She blanched the moment their eyes met, but, scrappy as she was, she still pulled over a car or two ahead of him.

Graham might've laughed had he not been too busy scratching his head. Confusion aside, he stepped out to meet her along the sidewalk, eyeing her sheepish appearance with some amusement.

"Good morning, Ms. Berry," he greeted jovially, and she peeked up at him warily. "I don't suppose you want to tell me why you've been following me the past three days."

Her lips parted in offense, but, caught-out, she was quick to change tactics. Her hands planted on her hips. "Well, I've been trying to see what you're doing to help Quinn, but so far, all I've seen you do is take her mother on a date. You're no better than McCormack."

Graham's cheeks heated, but he kept on point. "You're following him, too?"

"No, I was, earlier this week, but he never leaves his office," she harumphed, and if Graham hadn't had so many years of practice holding expression during interrogations, he'd have burst out laughing on the spot.

"You realize stalking is illegal," he demurred instead, and Ms. Berry scowled up at him.

"You'd never make it stick."

"And this likely isn't the best way to help your friend. Not only could it get you in trouble, but it looks bad for her, too."

This caught her attention. "How?"

"Well, if she has a friend keeping tabs on the investigation…"

She scoffed. "What investigation? You're not doing a thing. At least I'm trying to help her."

Her arms folded across her ribs, eyes falling aside, and Graham felt a pang of sympathy.

"I'm doing more than you think," he said cautiously, and, ignoring her skeptical glare, went on, "Are you going to stop, now that you've been caught?"

Ms. Berry tossed her hair. "Being caught is just a sign that I need to work on being stealthier."

"That's what I thought you'd say." He sighed. "Listen, I know how difficult it is to be on your side of things, and I know how badly you want to be able to help. But McCormack made you a character witness, didn't he?" Reluctant, she nodded. "And you've told me everything you know, haven't you?" Again, a nod. "Then you've done - you're doing - all you can do. I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's the truth. The best thing you can do is wait for the trial and, in the meantime, just get back to your life."

She leveled him with dark brown eyes and a defiant chin. "You make it sound so simple. Just go back to New York, live life as if nothing has changed, when it has. There's just a gaping hole where she used to be. And believe me, I've had holes punched into my life before, but this time, I can get Quinn back. And I don't care what it takes; I'm going to."

Scrappy - that was most definitely the word for this woman. She fought against any and all indications that Ms. Fabray was anything other than one hundred percent innocent in conversation and now, desperate to aid the process along, she was willing to do anything to prove it. In fact, he had the distinct impression that, in spite of his warning, she would continue to stalk him, McCormack - anyone she thought might have knowledge of Ms. Fabray's case - until she found a way to do some good. It wasn't, admittedly, the most productive or intelligent way to help, but something within Graham responded to it, recognized it as the same loyalty he felt for Miller, his partner. He would do anything, too, were he in Ms. Berry's shoes.

But he had to stop her somehow, for her own sake, for Ms. Fabray's, for the investigation.

"If...would you swear to stay out of it if I were to keep you updated on the case?"

The light went back on inside Ms. Berry's eyes, the friendly shine. "You would do that?"

"If only to keep you from getting into more trouble. But, it's all confidential. You are not to tell anyone what I have told you, do you understand?"

"Absolutely, no one! I swear!"

Graham eyed her closely. He was breaking all kinds of rules at the moment - but he had the feeling, looking at Ms. Berry's earnest face, that he could trust in her, if only because of her loyalty to Ms. Fabray.

"All right." He scratched his neck in a wave of anxiety. He had never divulged the details of a case before, and to start now…wide, voracious eyes staring at him weren't helping. "All right, we've made some progress. I'm working on a theory that she was framed. Mr. Fabray has been arranging drug deals and borrowing from loan sharks for a while, now it's possible somebody was collecting and things got out of hand, and McCormack has a report from an out-of-town spatter analyst that there's no way someone Ms. Fabray's height could've made the pattern in the pictures. Our guy is standing by his original report; we're getting a third opinion."

Ms. Berry was practically bouncing off the ground. "So - if he agrees with the out-of-town analyst, that makes her innocent, right? She can go free?"

He almost hated to extinguish her jubilance. "Not exactly. It's evidence she didn't do it, but there's no evidence anyone else did, either. We don't know of anyone else who was there that night."

"Is that why you're interviewing neighbors?" She gestured to the houses surrounding them. "Shouldn't you have done that a while ago?"

"No - I mean, yes, we've already interviewed all the surrounding neighbors. Most of them were working, out to dinner, but the others were all indoors, didn't see anything or don't remember anything unusual. Right now, I'm actually going to talk to the witness."

Ms. Berry's gaze darted from him to the house - back again. "The Hummels?"

"Mrs. Hummel, actually," he corrected mildly. "Mr. Hummel was inside at the time and the son - "

"Was at my rehearsal dinner," she finished.

Graham's eyebrows raised. How stupid of him - how had he not made the connection?

"You have a relationship with Mrs. Hummel?"

Ms. Berry's jaw, normally so loose and ready to pry open, seemed tightened, but she nodded. "So does Quinn. She's our ex-boyfriend's mother."

Graham paused. "Both…?"

She nodded again, pale. "Quinn and I both dated Finn back in high school. He passed away only...only months after we all graduated. And Mrs. Hummel - she was devastated."

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

But Ms. Berry seemed lost, entirely consumed by her own world, and he watched all light disappear from her this time, and information caught up with him in the silence.

Ms. Fabray had a prior relationship with Mrs. Hummel. Now that was something he hadn't read in any of the reports, something Mrs. Hummel had evidently failed to mention. A stirring of hope, promise, pulsed in his gut and he thought to ask after their relationship, but just as suddenly as Ms. Berry had gone quiet and withdrawn, she burst forth again with new fervor.

"She hates Quinn. Mrs. Hummel - at the funeral, she made Mr. Hummel ask Quinn to leave."

Graham's eyebrows rose. "Why - "

"Quinn, when she was pregnant, she - at first, she made everyone believe Finn was the father. She had cheated on him with Noah - Noah Puckerman - Finn's best friend, when he got her drunk and she was just a scared sixteen year old girl, she was - she didn't mean to hurt anybody, she was just afraid, but Finn, when he found out, he was heartbroken and Quinn, she'd been living with him and his mom after her parents kicked her out, and Mrs. Hummel kicked her out then, too, and I don't think she ever really forgave Quinn for hurting him that way."

All of this came so quickly and so eagerly that Graham was grateful for the moment to catch up. Ms. Berry was staring at him with an energy he hadn't seen on her yet, but he knew she was thinking just what he was:

"What if she lied?"

#

Graham had a hell of a time convincing Ms. Berry to go home so he could speak to Mrs. Hummel in private, without the worry of her peering in windows, and it was only the promise that he would call her afterward with the outcome that sent her on her merry way. Once he had, it was straight to the Hummels' door he went, though he thereafter worked to conceal his hopeful energy, knocking only twice.

Mrs. Hummel was a careworn woman, like Mrs. Fabray, only she had no poise, no facade with which to hide it. Her smile, when she answered the door, was faint, as if she was afraid of exposing her wrinkles. "Detective Graham?"

He offered his hand to her and she returned a firm shake. "Mrs. Hummel. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, too. Please, come in, I have some coffee hot and waiting."

The place was not nearly as grand as the Fabrays', much as the woman was not nearly as elegant as Mrs. Fabray. There was no magnificent chandelier or spiral staircase, there was no manicure and expensive clothing. No, for the Hummels, there was only a homey foyer with a long rug to run the length of the wooden floor, a dark den with furniture enclosing the TV on every side, where he sat with the offered mug of coffee. Mrs. Hummel sat across from him, smoothing out the bottom of her mumu.

"I apologize for disrupting your day; I know you've probably repeated your testimony about a hundred times by now," he began, though she waved a dismissive hand. "But sometimes, witnesses remember things they didn't pick up on before after time has passed. So, if I may begin, what were you doing when you saw Ms. Fabray?"

She straightened slightly. "I'd been off to get groceries after work and I was unloading the car when she pulled up and went inside. After that I heard an argument - "

"An argument, can you be more specific? What was said?"

Her head shook, gnawing her lip. "They weren't loud enough to hear what they were saying."

"But loud enough to be heard from across the street."

She nodded. "Yes."

Graham eyed her. That had been a definitive answer, but the other… "Can you be sure what you heard was an argument?"

Again, Mrs. Hummel was pulling at her lip. "Well...it sounded like yelling."

She'd hesitated. But it didn't sound as if she was lying. Her eyes narrowed, focused. She wasn't lying. She was trying to remember.

Graham sat forward. "When Ms. Fabray exited the house, what did you see?"

"She was covered, head to toe, in blood. She just walked to her car and drove off."

Another certainty. "How long after the sounds you heard did she leave?"

"Oh, an hour."

"And you didn't hear anything in between?"

"No, nothing."

"Did that seem strange to you?"

"A little, but I had just assumed at the time they had finished fighting - they fought a lot."

"Ever loudly enough that you could hear it across the street?"

"Well, no."

"And what sound did you hear that night?"

"Screaming." Mrs. Hummel gasped at her own word - and Graham sat back, triumphant. "Oh, God. She screamed. I just thought...oh, I thought they were fighting."

She looked at him in alarm, eyes wide, gnawing on her lip again - she eyed his cuffs.

"It's all right," he assured.

"You don't understand, I have - Quinn and I have a past - "

"I know."

"No one will ever believe it was an honest mistake!"

Graham leaned toward her again, narrowing on those panicked eyes. "If you come forward now, and if you testify the truth, they will. This won't mean she'll be released, but it will go a long way toward proving her innocence. You may not like her, but I believe you know it's not right to let her suffer for this."

Mrs. Hummel's breathing had calmed - she nodded. "I'll go down to the station to change my testimony now."


	17. Rollercoaster

**A/N:** This chapter may seem like something of a waste, just more Rachel fretting over Quinn vs. Jesse, but it actually includes a hint about the main murder mystery.

 **Rollercoaster**

Rachel was in high spirits, which, given that hers and Quinn's situations hadn't changed much at all, might have seemed a bit ridiculous. It certainly did to Detective Graham, of course. He had emphasized to her over and over that Mrs. Hummel's altered statement would not mean an automatic pass for Quinn. It was still no proof that someone else had killed Mr. Fabray, and in fact, the district attorney would likely argue that the detective had pressured Mrs. Hummel into changing her story, or had offered leading questions that subconsciously convinced her, or that the screams were likely the screams of a savage killer in the midst of her killing spree. But his dire warnings couldn't hold a candle to Rachel's happiness - Mrs. Hummel hadn't maliciously targeted Quinn after all, and Quinn's case was looking up. Rachel might have her in her arms again within a few months, maybe less!

It was also no small help to Rachel's mood that she had found herself an occupation: gathering the glee clubbers who supported Quinn for the creation of a CD. Of course, she couldn't actually physically gather them; they were all busy people on different sides of the country, or, in Noah's case, on another continent. But message and email and text them she could, and she did, and they all lunged into the idea with nearly as much enthusiasm as she had. Even Artie and Kitty seemed less irritated with her constant visits now that they had a goal in mind; Artie especially enjoyed the opportunity to flex his sound mixing skills, for in addition to an individual song from each of them, Rachel had asked them all to sing their part of Don't Stop Believing and Keep Holding On.

All except, of course, Noah. He was especially difficult to reach these days, for obvious reasons, and so when Rachel was finally able to get a message through to him requesting his voice and guitar for Quinn's CD, she only asked that he send one song and told him to choose whatever he pleased. Mercedes had convinced her, with some difficulty - Rachel was still very attached to her mental assignments - that it would mean a little something more if everyone selected their own songs to sing, aside from the group numbers. Rachel only hoped Noah had enough maturity not to select something like The Bitch Song. The last thing Quinn needed at the moment was another dose of their vitriolic, on and off relationship.

The spark of jealousy Rachel had felt upon reflection of that relationship, mainly made up of many second chances for Noah, had nearly caused her not to contact him at all. It was only the fact that he was in avid support of Quinn's innocence this time around that cooled her and saved him from exclusion, though he had yet to include himself.

Thus far, the other three had at least responded to her request, indicating that they would send their audio files as swiftly as possible for inclusion. Mercedes, with the convenience of her recording studio, had been first, with a rendition of Borrow Mine in honor of hers and Quinn's shared Christian faith. Joe had been next to send a low key version of These Times on his guitar. Sam was the only one left out of state, but he had indicated to Rachel that he would be recruiting a couple of guest stars for his performance. She had been tempted to urge him not to bother trying to persuade the others to Quinn's side when they couldn't manage to support her from the beginning, but she'd learned during their brief dalliance in dating that he was much too kindhearted to be drawn away from any such end.

Besides, Rachel had other occupations to worry herself over. Artie had set up the A/V room at McKinley, with Mr. Schuester's permission, for her use as a little recording studio. She'd stockpiled it with a stack of books from both her fathers' collections, the local and in-school library, and even Kitty and Artie's shelf, and sat at the microphone with a bottle of water at her side and a book in her hands for hours, reading all the e.e. cummings poetry she could get her hands on, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Mercedes had picked it as Quinn's favorite book - Wuthering Heights, though it left her in tears, Atlas Shrugged - and she never tired of it. She had expected to, and quickly; reading was such a stationary activity that unless the topic was related to her greatest passion, she rarely had the patience for it. But when it was in the service of Quinn's comfort and happiness, it took on an entirely different feeling. In her mind's eye, Quinn lounged across the little space from her, listening with that ever calm countenance and soulful eyes, and under that gaze, even imagined, Rachel settled with purpose, focus, and peace.

At least until her reading for the day was finished, and then she returned to fretting over what she would sing for Quinn's CD. Artie and Kitty, although they hadn't recorded their versions yet, had already selected Reach Out (I'll Be There) and Ain't No Mountain High Enough, respectively, for their tracks, and so Rachel was the only one without a song to sing. She had thousands of tracks on her iPod to sift through, a good chunk of which would have been appropriate for their theme of support, but none of which seemed right. She had at least decided on Lean On Me and Umbrella for the three of them to sing, but her solo escaped decision - and they had set aside today for recording their vocals for the seven songs.

In spite of her dilemma, Rachel had, of course, arrived early with three tall cups of a lemon tea blend to soothe their throats between sessions; Artie, eager to start, wasn't far behind, rolling in as she was scrolling through her iPod, reviewing her options again.

"Good morning, diva," he sang, and already he was fiddling with wires and adjustments she'd never quite been able to follow no matter how long she'd been in the business.

"I'm so glad that nickname is spreading," Rachel grumped, though she was only half-serious, and he shot a big toothy grin at her. "Where's Kitty?"

"Grooming herself. She told me to stop rushing her and get out, though I don't see how sitting there waiting was rushing her." He shrugged his shoulders. "She'll be along soon, anyway, and it just gives us time to get set up. Have you decided on a song yet?"

Rachel ducked her head and thumbed through the length of Pride and Prejudice. "No."

He stopped. "We're recording _today_. What are you going to do?"

"Technically, I still have until Sam and Noah to get theirs to us. I'm sure I'll think of something by then."

Puffing and shaking his head, Artie turned back to his gadgets. "This was _your_ idea."

The first sensations of a frown tickled at Rachel's mouth. "I know that, but picking the right song isn't as simple as turning on shuffle and belting the first title you see."

"This isn't exactly an audition for Broadway."

She slapped the book down. "It's for _Quinn_."

Artie said nothing more, and when Kitty came in smiling, she carried the mood of the room back up with her. The three of them set to work on Don't Stop Believing first and foremost; Rachel was swamped with nostalgia nearly instantly. Although it was only the three of them and not their usual number of twelve, it felt almost identical to their old glee club days, working out a number before Regionals or for the theme of the week. And their theme of the week this time was 'support Quinn.' It was only too bad they couldn't all be together to perform their little concert, that they wouldn't be able to see Quinn's face fighting with emotion while they flooded her with love and faith. This would have to be enough until Quinn was free.

After they'd completed Keep Holding On, it became far easier to work without the burden of Mercedes and Joe's vocal recordings to match up to. Things would be a bit shoddy, as a result of all this mixing and matching audio files, but Artie took to the task with vigor, and Rachel was certain he'd produce something simply perfect. But they still had four more songs to complete, and so after she and Kitty had retrieved lunch, she urged him to save the rest of the work for another day and to head onto their smaller group numbers.

Rachel had fully intended on assigning Lean On Me as a full group number, but Mercedes pointed out it would be difficult enough for them all to find time for three songs, four was a stretch - and Artie protested that it would take long enough for him to mix two songs, quipping that she might be out of prison by the time he finished the third. Thus, she was overruled and forced to make a decision on which two songs were most important for Quinn to hear everyone singing. It was an easy choice, once she thought on it - Don't Stop Believing was their whole group's anthem, and Keep Holding On, well. It was their love song to Quinn. Rachel simply had yet to decide what her love song to Quinn would be, though part of her difficulty in choosing one lie in that terminology. For so many reasons, it couldn't actually be a love song, but now every song she thought to croon for Quinn sounded like one.

Singing with Kitty and Artie didn't allow her time to fret over that lingering responsibility; though Rachel was able to fill in for Mercedes' usual extravagant vocals for Lean On Me, it didn't stop the two of them from laughing over her complete and utter whiteness in comparison to Mercedes' jazzy funk - even moreso when they finally went on to Umbrella, but by then they even had Rachel in stitches, and she realized it had been months since she'd had reason to laugh. Quinn had been right when she'd told her to at least find a production to join - she needed to sing, to be around it. Rachel may not have known Quinn as well as she would've liked, but she could say one thing with certainty: Quinn Fabray knew her well.

In spite of this joy, Rachel still managed, through titters, to scold them: "I don't think I approve of this double standard. I'm mocked for trying on Rihanna, but Mercedes sings Celine Dion and it's worthy of a standing ovation?"

"It's not a double standard; it's style," Artie defended, shrugging his shoulders. "You're classic Streisand; Mercedes is more - versatile."

She barked another laugh."Because I never once stepped out of my wheelhouse and led the way with a Katy Perry song. Only every other week!"

"That's different," he deflected.

"Perry's pop; Rihanna's got sass," Kitty interjected. "Like Mercedes."

Rachel puffed and triumphantly brought her hands to her hips. "I can be sassy."

"Okay, it's more like - an edge," Artie blurted, snapping his fingers.

Kitty's head bobbed emphatically. "Exactly."

"Hey. In case you don't remember, I sent someone to a crackhouse. If that's not edge - "

Now Kitty's eyes were bulging, a mixture of disbelief and, if Rachel wasn't mistaken, a bit of newfound admiration. "You did what?"

She flushed. "I was - sixteen."

"And you were a lot closer to being edgy back then." Artie grinned, turning his teeth up to Kitty where she leaned against a cart of stereo equipment. "She even got a teacher fired."

Kitty's eyes were alight with interest now - just about matching Rachel's cheeks in brightness.

"Seriously?"

"Well, he really _was_ touching Dan in a very inappropriate manner and - "

"Seriously," Artie spoke over her, delighted to have Kitty's complete attention. "Sandy Ryerson, the old glee club director; Mr. Schuester wouldn't have been able to take over if she hadn't, but still - he became a _drug dealer_."

"Way to take 'em down, Berry," Kitty drawled, eyeing her once again with new interest.

Rachel neared boiling temperature by this point and a million defenses for her behavior leapt to mind; they would all have come pouring out until both Artie and Kitty were bored of the subject, Rachel was certain, but at the pivotal moment when she was drawing breath, her cell phone buzzed in her skirt's pocket. Artie visibly drooped in relief; Rachel, on the other hand, stared at the screen with the tension of a coiled spring.

She hadn't actually communicated with her fiance by any means but text since he'd gone; even then, Jesse only assured her that he'd arrived in New York safely and, afterward, occasionally checked in with her, filling her in on his activities and asking after her fathers. He'd taken up an advisory position to a fellow actor/director friend heading his first Broadway project at Helen Hayes while he scoped for new auditions and projects, apparently, and spent much of the rest of his time with their New York friends, making up the useless trip to Ohio with parties, gifts, and flattery. Assuring them that the wedding would be on again as soon as Rachel's bridesmaid had her trial. In other words, he'd been keeping himself very busy, and Rachel had been texting so briefly and infrequently with him, she had practically forgotten about him.

Rachel's stomach curdled instantly. She hadn't meant to forget, not about Jesse. But all her energy had been focused on Quinn, on helping Quinn -

"Are you going to answer that?" Kitty's mouth was twisted in a particularly nasty display of her irritation.

"Yes - sorry. Um, maybe one of you can sing your solo while I take this?"

"Sure," Artie agreed, and Rachel slipped out into that old, familiar hallway, crossing her arm over her stomach as she pressed the phone up to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, my sun and stars," his loving voice came through joyously, "How are you doing today?"

Rachel could practically see him grinning. "Oh - fine. I'm fine. How are you?"

"Dandy," he quipped. "We've been blessed with a new producer - "

She tried to listen to him; really, she did, but soon enough all Rachel could focus on was the cadence of his voice in her ear. His pleasant voice she'd fallen in love with the first time she heard it in song. It still stirred her heart to faster beats, still quickened her breath, but now there was a new sensation. Her insides were punishing her, most especially her gut, sending a wave of nausea so strong sweat formed on her brow. She had felt guilt this powerful before; moreso, for Quinn's accident, and to feel it so overwhelmingly now, just because she was listening to Jesse's voice, telling her he loved her so deeply and dearly through every inflection - how could she have forgotten him when he loved her so? And when she loved him, too. How could she betray him, how could she fall in love with someone else? He didn't deserve that; he'd done nothing to deserve it. What was wrong with her?

"Rachel? Are you still there?"

His shout jolted her to life. "Yes - yes, I'm still here. Sorry."

"It's okay. I was just telling you, the reason I called was because you should expect a package within the next few days," he enunciated, and her brow furrowed.

"A package?"

"Yeah, our wedding gift from Quinn came today. Actually, _your_ wedding gift, she didn't put my name," he chuckled, unbothered, "Anyway, I didn't know what to do with it, so I just sent it on to you."

A wedding gift. From Quinn. Because Rachel was supposed to be married by now; she was supposed to be back from her honeymoon by now. Quinn was supposed to have been one of her bridesmaids, to have stood up with her at the altar, to have danced and toasted at Rachel and Jesse's reception. Rachel was supposed to be on the next audition, her husband alongside her. How her life had changed…

"Sweet?"

"Well, what is it?"

He was more hesitant this time. "I didn't open it. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah - yes, I'm sorry, I'm just. I'm tired, I haven't been sleeping well," she spluttered swiftly, a half-truth that only caused her stomach more grief.

"It's missing me," Jesse quipped cheerfully - but there was a note to his voice, a hopefulness.

Rachel swallowed and forced a chuckle. "That must be it."

His breathing crackled through, once, twice, and a third time before he said, "Well, I'll let you go so you can get some rest."

"Okay." She grimaced.

"I love you."

Rachel closed her eyes, whispering, "I love you, too."

"Talk to you later, sweet."

The phone chirped to announce he'd ended their call, and Rachel lowered it back to her pocket, only to nearly leap out of her skin when Artie announced his presence:

"Shit. You've got that look."

That brilliant mood she'd begun the day with had evaporated, and with it had gone all traces of humor, and so Rachel, regretting it instantly, snapped back at him, "What look?"

But he didn't even seem to notice; he only eyed her tensely, and said finally, "It's Quinn, isn't it?"

He didn't need to say any more.

Rachel dropped her head back against the wall. "Mercedes told you."

"No." He rolled closer. "You just haven't gotten any more subtle since high school. In fact, I should've known months ago; you've been obsessing over her since the wedding."

She passed a glare his way, folding her arms. "I'm not obsessed."

"No offense, but it's kind of what you do. It's a little scary. Finn got over that. Jesse probably even thinks it's cute. Quinn won't."

Once again, he drew her sharp gaze back to him, wounded this time, and her hands went flailing before she could stop them. "Don't talk to me about Finn. _Or_ Jesse, or-or Quinn, for that matter, you don't know anything about it!"

Artie held up his hands palms out, a gesture of peace. "Hey, I'm just trying to help."

"By reminding me that you all think I'm an obnoxious freak?" she hissed, leaning toward him fiercely.

"That's not what we think about you anymore and you know it." He sighed, venturing more meekly, "But you are a lot to take sometimes and Quinn… Let's just say if you leave him for her, it's going to end in tears. I just don't want to see that happen."

Rachel's stomach was no longer the problem, she realized; her eyes stung, stung as her heart did, because Artie was telling the truth. Quinn was her friend now, maybe even loved her like she loved Mercedes, but she would never love her the way Jesse did. Not only romantically, but unconditionally. Rachel would drive her crazy, because she drove everyone crazy, even as a toned down version of her high school self. Everyone except for Jesse.

"Who said I was going to leave him anyway?"

Artie shrugged. "I know that look."

Impatient, she huffed, "What look?"

"The same one Tina had when she fell in love with Mike. Or his abs, anyway," he grunted.

Rachel's irritation came to a full-on halt. She was looking at Jesse. Or what she had turned Jesse into by falling for Quinn. She hadn't considered talking to the other side, not just the person who was like her, the Rachel, Mercedes - caught between two amazing people, but the person who was like Jesse, like Shane, like Artie - the betrayed. The one who was left behind because what the girls felt for Quinn, for Sam, for Mike burned so bright and the familiar stood no chance next to it.

Or was that really what happened? Was older love simply dying out, or not as true? Mike and Tina had been together for so long after she split with Artie; it seemed to Rachel that if it had only been because of the spark, it would have ended swiftly, it would have been a flash in the pan romance. But either way, Artie was hurt for the sake of that romance.

Rachel drew breath. "Do you wish she'd stayed with you?"

He rubbed his palm over the wheel of his chair, back and forth, for what felt like minutes. "Yeah. I mean, I know it's supposed to be better to end it when that happens. It's supposed to be unfair to stay with somebody you don't love anymore. It didn't feel very fair to be dumped, either."

She rested her hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Artie."

His chest rose and fell in a great sigh. "I'm not trying to be mean, okay? I - "

"I know. You're trying to help." Rachel dropped her hand, pulling at her lip. "But you don't have to worry, okay? I'm not leaving Jesse. All I want is for Quinn to be found innocent. And for her to know that she still has friends who support her. I know that we could never...never be, and I know that Jesse is the one for me. It's just a silly infatuation. It'll go away." She nodded, shakily.

Artie stared. "Okay…"

The door creaked and Kitty's blonde head appeared in the hall. "Hey, I finished owning this song like ten minutes ago, can we finish up the hall conference and get back to work?"

Rachel pulled a bright smile. "Of course."

Music - music would put her at ease. Just as Quinn knew it would.


	18. Bruise

**Bruise**

It wasn't going away. Rachel knew that for certain, beyond any doubts she may have had, the moment she opened up Quinn's wedding gift on her father's dining table. Beneath layers of tape and bubble wrap and protective plastic was a box filled with original Broadway cast recordings, on vinyl records. First releases. Her father, ever nosy - not that she could throw stones on that count - gasped with excitement over her shoulder while she carefully drew out the first in line, Oklahoma!, with more calm than she truly felt. Was this what Mercedes was talking about when she said Quinn showed her love through actions, not words? Rachel could think of no other reason for this extravagant, thoughtful, wonderful gift, but how could she trust herself? Love was such a blinding force for Rachel; under its spell, she saw it in everything and elevated even the friendliest gesture to a romantic level. And this was just another example, like the train tickets Quinn had gifted her with so they could stay in touch. Expensive, outlandish, and so wonderful - but friendly all the same.

She hated herself for hoping - wishing it was more. Jesse deserved a better partner than someone who longed for someone else's love; Quinn deserved a better friend than someone who wished for more from her, and while she was dealing with so much, so much that had nothing to do with Rachel.

"Where did you get these?" Dad prompted at last, oohing over the Grease soundtrack.

Rachel tugged at her lip. "I didn't; they're a wedding gift, from Quinn."

She felt him staring at her. "Now I see why you want her out of prison so badly: the amazing presents," he teased, nudging her side until she couldn't help but smile. "Too bad we don't have a player, we could invite your dad for a marathon this weekend."

She swiveled toward him, clutching Carnival! to her chest. "We could still do that. Just...watch the movies instead. Like we used to."

His hand rested on her shoulder, and his crooked little smile said everything, but he offered, "Maybe."

No, as usual. Rachel turned away and took refuge in Broadway, in Quinn, scanning through the casings to note any damages. She had thought and dreamed many, many times of springing a Parent Trap on her fathers. Inviting them both to visit her and Jesse for the weekend at the same time and locking them in together, or inviting them along for a vacation and booking them a hotel room together. To her credit, the ideas fizzled rather quickly now in the face of reality - they were not getting back together. They didn't want to, and no amount of family fun or sitcom antics would change their minds. In fact, it would likely only make things worse. So Rachel tried not to ask too much of her fathers, save for when it was most important to her. Like her wedding.

The wedding that hadn't happened, that Rachel wasn't even sure she wanted anymore, in spite of her love for Jesse. How had that happened? Yes, she had fallen in love with Quinn, but had that diminished what she felt for Jesse? Or was she simply afraid to be dishonest, to marry someone while emotionally unfaithful to them? Rachel would have liked to attribute the more noble reason to herself, but the truth of the matter was as she had told Mercedes: she no longer knew what she wanted, aside from Quinn's freedom. And while she was trying to focus wholeheartedly on that one goal, she was failing miserably, in part thanks to guilt. She wasn't even entirely sure how she was going to face Quinn tomorrow - but there was no way she was going to pass up on her once-a-month visit, either.

#

"For a jury to convict, they have to be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt."

Quinn had been running McCormack's words through her head every day. When she woke, when she went to bed, and nearly every moment in between. There was hope now. Real hope. He'd delivered the news that Mrs. Hummel had changed her statement the day afterward, the fire of triumph in his eyes, though he, unsurprisingly, came nowhere near admitting he might have been wrong to suggest attacking her on the stand. He seemed to prefer spending the time boasting that the district attorney had no course of action with which to fight this unexpected turn of events; he could try to pin it on Detective Graham pressuring or leading her, but he had no proof, and attacking the very police department which had arrested Quinn for following up with a witness would make him look like an idiot. The only thing he could do was try to get Mrs. Hummel to change her mind again on the stand, and even then, he may look like a bully.

And, if the jury was following their job to the letter, they could not convict if there was reasonable doubt.

The case was looking thinner in other ways, too. The third blood splatter analyst agreed with the second. Quinn was only about 5'6". There was no way she would have left an outline in the upward spray while beating her 5'10" father over the head.

Fingerprints from the drugs they had lifted from her childhood home were also coming in quickly now, matched against local known drug dealers, and Graham and his partner, Miller, were working down the list to make arrests and check alibis. Thus far, none of them had panned out as potential suspects, with some claiming they had stopped doing business with her father long before his murder. One even admitted he had tried to get free product off of them, so they had sent him a 'warning,' but that that had been months ago.

Quinn heard all of it as if McCormack was talking about someone else's father, some junkie off the street, and the lie allowed her to hope. That the trial would come, the jury would hear that the murdered man was a junkie and a gambler, that Mrs. Hummel had probably heard screams, not an argument, and they would hear the forensic evidence confirmed by two expert blood splatter analysts and disputed by one amateur, and they would say: innocent. That Rachel could get back to her life and her career, back to her home in New York and on Broadway, chasing after that Tony Award with stars in her eyes and fire in her voice. That Quinn herself could get back to what was left of her life.

But that was where her hopeful thoughts ended, with her own life, because she was reminded both that McCormack had warned that the district attorney would undoubtedly be digging up her messy little past and dragging the rotting, rancid remains in front of the jury, and that even if she was found innocent, her life was forever changed.

It was unlikely now that Quinn could truly make a go of it with Little Star; even with an innocent verdict, the stench of a murder suspect would be following her for some time, until possibly the whole company stank of it and she ruined its chances for further expansion - and worse, ruin the kids' chances. So it might be better off in Ellen and Diane's capable hands, but then what on earth would Quinn do instead? For much the same reasons, she could hardly start up a whole new company of her own, and though she had enough money saved up that she could sustain herself for some time, what about the people who counted on her? The Evans, the Puckermans, Shelby and Beth - and her mother?

The thought froze Quinn so completely that she didn't even register the giant red fist flying at her face until it made impact; the ropes of the ring caught her around the hip and arm, bouncing her back to her feet. She lifted her gloved fist to indicate a break to her enthusiastic opponent and trailed over toward the corner.

The boxing ring was meant to be used for light sparring only, but, of course, that rule was very rarely followed, and the guards very rarely intervened, because it meant they were spending energy and rage that might have otherwise started a serious fight. Quinn appreciated it for that use, as well, allowing her not only to exercise her upper body and the self-defense skills she'd been honing since her first year of college, but to cut the end off a fuse - to maintain the strategy she'd been employing since she was brought here. Be like Rachel. Don't react. Let it go.

It actually seemed to be working nowadays, now that Carol spent more time at her side than not. The other women still sneered, spat the occasional insult, but the escalating activities, the bruising boxing fights and shoving in the yard, had plateaued, so that Quinn was mostly left alone. There was only one group of women who were still unsatisfied - or rather, enraged - with her presence, and unfortunately, she happened to be boxing one of them right now. The one who had caught her dozing at a table, exhausted from more nightmares than sleep, and tapped her cigarette ashes down the back of Quinn's shirt.

It seemed an off-guard opponent was her favorite kind, because just as Quinn was about to take her head padding off and free her brow of sweat with a rag, a solid hit to her ribs sent her doubling and whirling, fists up. Hood, as she was ironically known, the way Carol was known as Jaws, grinned widely.

"What the hell's wrong with you, I signaled for a break."

"Aw, you tired?"

She threw out a jab, but, on alert now, Quinn dodged out of the corner.

"Come on, bitch. I'll teach you how to take a beating." Hood gestured her closer, baring her teeth.

Quinn scoffed and yanked off a glove. "You're a little late to that lesson."

"Aw, did your daddy slap you around, Fabray? Is that why you killed him?"

Her spine stiffened, but she didn't stop taking off her padding. "I didn't kill him."

Hood pranced around her, tapping her shoulder with a glove."Hey, I don't blame you. Who didn't think about offing the guy?"

Her eyebrow nearly joined the rest of her hair. "What?"

A shrug answered. "The asshole tried to rip me off. Like father, like daughter."

"You dealt to him?"

She grinned and pumped her fists. "Tell you what. You win, I tell you everything I know."

The mounting tension died instantly, and Quinn sneered. Of course, Hood was only messing with her - trying to get her angry, interested, and fighting. Quinn bent to leave the ring, and instantly had the wind knocked out of her. She barely had a moment to recover from landing full-force on the cement with Hood's weight on her before the bitch was hitting her head back to the ground - Quinn bit down on her tongue reflexively - she could taste blood - she kneed Hood sharply in the back. When she hissed, Quinn dug her nails into her throat and rolled, placing a solid knee against her stomach, and just as she was about to land a wallop of her own across Hood's face, hands stronger than her own pried her off.

Locke, the guard who grabbed her up, stood by while the on-site nurse looked Quinn over only minutes later, but after the medic determined all her injuries would have to heal on their own, he steered her into the hall - and in the opposite direction of her cell.

"Where are we going?"

He dashed a glance down at her. "Isolation."

Ice raced over her skin.

"Relax. It's only for a couple of hours; we know who started it," he murmured, squeezing. "What the fuck's her problem with you, anyway?"

Quinn swallowed - and grimaced. Metallic. "Hell if I know."

At the moment, she was more concerned about where he was taking her. Isolation. Her skin crawled. Two hours. Just two hours.

Locke opened the door for her, into a small padded room. No windows. "I'll be back in two hours."

He shut the door at her back, and Quinn spun. There was one square window in the door, just the size of her palm, enough for a guard to peek inside on his way by. It offered a marginal amount of relief to her pounding heart. It was only two hours.

Her tongue was numb, her face sore. The bruise was setting in, stiffening her cheek, and it was going to be monstrous. Every breath produced a twinge, her ribs protesting. But none of that compared to the prospect of this tiny room. But it was only two hours - she could make it two hours.

Quinn held her side, sank into the corner farthest from the door, where she could still see the light pouring in from the outer hall. Sometimes corners made a room feel bigger.

Hood. Locke had asked what her problem was. Quinn had thought, upon first meeting her, that she looked familiar, in the vague way some relative seen once, years apart, at family reunions or funerals was someone you knew you were supposed to recognize, but the memory failed. She hadn't thought much beyond that when it came to Hood, but perhaps she should've.

She didn't know her real name. Just Hood, like Robin Hood, because she was best known for her pickpocketing skills. Evidently she had been in Marysville before, too, for robbing a bank. This time, it was drug possession. And if there was a grain of truth to her taunts before - what if Quinn's father was the one who had snitched on her? What if he'd been trying to rip off other dealers, like the one who had sent him a warning, only someone's warning went too far?

It was strange to even think about. Her father, the druggie. The junkie. And her mom, standing by him, watching him pour their money down the drain with the same helpless silence she had watched with when he kicked Quinn out so many years ago. Despite that, despite his cheating, Quinn had still held this figure of him in her head, the one he'd moulded for her as she grew up. The strong, noble father, the patriarch. To think of him seeking out dealers, seeking his next hit, desperate, greedy - and to think of him paying for his greed with blow after blow to the head, seeing his own blood coating his beloved home, feeling his skull being smashed in -

The first thing Quinn did when Locke came to retrieve her was apologize for the vomit. He told her not to worry about it, and brought her to her cell to rest. Carol joined her shortly and spent the rest of the day waking Quinn each time she had a nightmare.

#

Locke came to retrieve Quinn the next morning, after she'd been allowed to return to her cell following a shower, breakfast, and another visit to the medic. The nurse confirmed that her ribs were only bruised, not broken or fractured, but recommended rest and pain medication. It was going to hurt like hell, she'd said, and it did. Locke assured her that Hood had received the maximum punishment for her lack of control, though that didn't stop some of her more hateful antagonists from coming by her cell to taunt and laugh. Quinn was too relieved to be in the open air of her cell to care much. In fact, she didn't care for the idea of moving, either, and so her favorite guard was ignored for another moment of rest.

"Your girlfriend's here to see you," Locke prompted.

Rachel.

Quinn stirred. Had it really been another month since her last visit? A month since she'd looked at Quinn so - her days had blurred so much she'd felt an eternity between them. She rolled herself to the edge of the bunk and landed on her feet.

Locke was smirking at her, and as he hooked up her handcuffs, he muttered, "I thought that might get you up."

He kept any further comments to himself as they walked up to the private visitors' room and he attached her chain to the table. From the moment he shut the door behind him to the moment the door opposite her opened up, Quinn only had about a minute alone, but like every piece of time in this prison, it stretched on as if it were a whole day between the promise of Rachel and the sight of her. Thankfully, the length felt entirely worth it when Rachel was finally there in front of her.

There was something somber about Rachel that hadn't been there in previous visits. She had dressed up, same as before, but her makeup wasn't nearly so bright and her hair wasn't so buoyant. Even her dress was something more modest, purely navy in color, with no variation, no dots or flowers or stripes. But she was smiling - not the same as before. She wasn't grinning, but rather beaming, so that she was lit up from the inside and smiling not necessarily for happiness, but because she couldn't help herself.

Quinn's heart had never been so full.

And then Rachel saw the bruise.


	19. Sing

**Sing**

Had Quinn known what she was going to say, she wouldn't have had half a second to do so before Rachel was across the room, frantic, and spewing, "Oh, my God! Quinn, what happened?"

And half a second later, as Rachel's hands were tipping Quinn's chin so that she could survey the ugly violet bruise, the guard who had brought her in was bursting through the door and scolding, "No contact with the prisoner!"

And half a second after that, Locke came back through the side door, summoned by all the commotion, and demanded, "What's going on in here?"

In short, Quinn became the center of a maelstrom in less than two seconds which only spun more fantastically out of control from there on.

"I don't care about your rules right now!" Rachel spat, red-faced and squeezing Quinn's shoulder while the other hand flew wildly, and then back to Quinn, wide-eyed and quiet, "What happened?"

"Ms. Berry, you've been here enough times to know better," the guard tried again.

"I don't care!"

"Ms. Berry!"

Rachel looked on the verge of outright strangling the guard for her interruptions, and Quinn recognized all too well the pull of breath she took, about to lay into her with all the ferocity she could muster. But while Quinn felt paralyzed under Rachel's touch, Locke was under no such spell and came lurching forward, between the three of them, holding out his palms in a gesture of peace..

"Okay. That's enough. Laura, why don't you let me handle this from here, I'm sure the front desk needs you for something."

Laura's lips pinched into a tight pink line, but she nodded, and the moment the door clicked shut, Locke turned his attention to calming Rachel, explaining, "Quinn got into a bit of a scuffle with one of the other inmates yesterday, Ms. Berry, but - "

"A scuffle?" Rachel's voice had dropped with unfamiliar venom. "Isn't it your _job_ to _stop_ 'scuffles'?!"

Quinn breathed in as Rachel's hand fell away to point instead at Locke's nose. "I'm fine, Rachel."

Once again, that furious countenance softened. "This is the opposite of fine. You're hurt."

"I'm okay."

Rachel seemed not to have heard, for in the next moment, she was glowering up at Locke again. "And you let it happen!"

Quinn tried, without thinking, to reach for Rachel's arm, to sound the retreat, but the chain brought her wrists to an abrupt halt. "Rachel, it's not his fault."

"I got to her as fast as I could," Locke defended.

"It obviously wasn't fast enough!"

"And the other inmate has been punished accordingly."

"And what about Quinn? Ha - "

"We have to deliver punishment for fighting, but she was only in isolation for a couple of hours, and only so she could cool down."

Quinn nearly dropped her forehead against the table. Rachel was incensed.

"You put her in isolation? She's _claustrophobic_!"

Locke's gaze swiveled sharply to Quinn. "You didn't tell me that."

She shrugged. "It was only a couple of hours."

"You threw up," he returned flatly.

She sighed - Rachel's jaw had nearly hit the floor by this point. "That wasn't entirely - "

"I can't believe this, you people are either completely incompetent or totally unprofessional, and I don't think it even matters which at this point! My father has some very important, _high-level_ contacts in the ACLU and believe me, you will be hearing from them _very_ soon," Rachel hissed, up in Locke's face now.

"Rachel," Quinn called. "It's okay."

She didn't take her eyes off him. "It's not okay. Now, if you'll be so kind as to get me an ice pack - or is that breaking your 'no touching' rule, too?"

Locke shook his head, and if Quinn hadn't caught the quiver of his mouth, she'd have thought he was entirely unaffected by the little fireball in front of him. "No, ma'am. I'll be back shortly."

As soon as he had ducked out of the room, Rachel was in a flurry of movement again, grabbing up her chair to position directly next to Quinn's and smoothing out the skirt of her dress as she sat. The pinched, red fury that had overtaken Rachel's expression on Quinn's behalf now faded, brought down to a series of grimaces as she overlooked the extent of the bruising, and her fingers hovered around Quinn's cheek in bare grazes that sent her hair standing on end. The sudden quiet could have been startling, but the concern exuding from Rachel in nearly palpable waves, her careful near-touches, her very presence left Quinn soothed and steady.

"God, Quinn…" Rachel cooed, bottom perched on the very edge of the steel chair and only leaning closer by the moment.

"I'm okay," Quinn repeated, but Rachel only shook her head, entirely unconvinced.

"I'm going to get McCormack to have you moved back to Lima. There has to be something he can do. For your safety," she said decisively, spine straightening with purpose.

"I'm fine."

Rachel sighed. "You keep saying that. Why won't - "

The door swung open and Locke strode in, handing a cloth-wrapped packet of ice to Rachel's waiting hands.

"All right, here you go, ma'am."

Rachel dismissed him with a stiff, "Thank you," and a toss of her hair, and Quinn hissed as the fabric stung her cheek. "Ooh, sorry."

"It's okay."

Locke grinned at her, and Quinn glowered back until he slipped out the side door again. The cold was slow to seep through, but once it did, the numbing effect seemed to loosen the tightened, pained muscles, easing her stiffened posture that much more. She could feel Rachel's big brown eyes on her, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck to attention. Rachel's free hand rested on the table next to the chain, near enough to uncurl her fingers and brush Quinn's wrist. Quinn glanced askance at her. Rachel gnawed viciously on her bottom lip, the corners of her eyes crinkled with worry.

She pulled in a breath. "It's really all right. Just a boxing match that got a little out of hand, that's all."

Rachel's brow knit and she looked, for a moment, like a puppy who'd just discovered its first glass window. "What were you doing boxing?"

Quinn fought a smile. "It's one of the exercises offered here. I learned while I was taking self defense classes back in college."

The adorable expression dropped. "I really don't know anything about you, do I?"

It was the first time Quinn could recall hearing Rachel express any such sentiment, and for a moment, she was at an utter loss for words. The idea that they didn't know each other, that Rachel didn't know her was...ridiculous. They'd been friends for all of Quinn's adult life, and known each other for most of their teenage lives. Sure, they had changed in that time - Quinn more obviously and more dramatically, ironically enough, but they had been together in those changes. Rachel herself had caused some of those changes in Quinn. Her faith had spurred Quinn to apply to Yale, one of the best decisions of her life; her friendship had stopped Quinn from hurting the person she loved most, enabled her to see clearly, past blinding rage, to a future for Beth, for herself, that was better than any she had dared to imagine before. After all that, after helping Quinn become a person who could be happy, who didn't have to live in such an ugly world even when the worst happened, Rachel thought she didn't know her?

But Quinn couldn't say all that. "We've known each other for years."

"I know, but I don't know…" Rachel fumbled. "That detective, Detective Graham, asked me what I knew about your relationship with your dad, and I realized...nothing. I don't know anything except what everybody knows."

Quinn's stomach flipped - "Do you think I killed him?"

"No!" Rachel puffed, flustered, and Quinn felt the ice pack wiggling against her cheek as Rachel fought the natural urge to let her arms flop about. "Quinn, God, no, that's not what I'm saying. I know that. I know that you would never hurt anyone that way. It's just. I don't feel like I'm a part of your life."

Her brow quirked. "You are."

All right, so perhaps Rachel wasn't part of her every day, but Quinn had never let her fade completely from her life, and never would. Rachel, if her expression was any indication, didn't seem so certain. She eyed her cautiously from beneath those long lashes, dragging in preparatory breaths, but not allowing the words to pass. Quinn waited.

"Okay." Rachel swallowed. "Okay, then tell me. Are you dating Ellen?"

It was too easy - and Rachel was too tense. "DeGeneres?"

Rachel bit off a grin too late. "No. No, your assistant."

Ah, that Ellen - Mercedes must have said something to Rachel. It didn't particularly rankle Quinn to hear it. She hadn't indicated to Mercedes that it was anything top secret, after all, but now she wished she had given Mercedes more details, or at least followed up on the question.

"No, I'm not."

Rachel's eyes brightened, but the tension in her shoulders didn't ease."Why didn't you tell me you were...bi or - "

"Because it's nobody's business."

"Oh," she uttered.

Quinn's sigh was quick to follow, her heart punishing her with a swell upon seeing Rachel so stung. "Does it really matter to you?"

Slowly, she shook her brunette head, knocking strands over her shoulders. "No. I mean...no, it doesn't change...how I feel about you."

Nothing else seemed forthcoming - Quinn ducked her head to catch big brown eyes. "So…"

"So, it's like whatever went on with your dad. Knowing won't change how I feel about you. But I want to know, because you're my friend and because I trust you and I want you to trust me." Rachel grimaced, looking aside, at the chrome beneath her fingertips. "I know that's selfish."

"It's not selfish."

"No, it is. It's unfair of me to unload this on you - to expect anything from you when you have so many other things to deal with right now and I'm making it all about me, as usual. And when you've already given me so much." Suddenly, the somber pout of Rachel's lips was replaced by that same smile from earlier, the one that lit her up from the inside, and Quinn tilted her head. "I got your wedding gift."

Oh. Quinn tucked her chin, swiping one thumb over the other. "I got a player for them, but...the police kind of have it right now."

"The records themselves are more than enough. I love them. And I thank you," Rachel murmured warmly, tenderly adjusting the pack against her cheek..

"You're welcome." She dared a glance; there was that look again, that breathless stare. "It's not selfish or unfair to want someone you care about to care about you, to trust you. And I do. Maybe sometime I'll tell you about...my dad, but right now, I'm just...I'm just trying to deal with everything and thinking about it…" She closed her eyes. "About him, doesn't help."

Rachel's expression pinched into a wince. "I know, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked - "

"Can you stop apologizing to me? I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to be happy."

"I know…" She was staring again, as if Quinn had said something revolutionary.

"What?"

"Nothing." Her poor lip suffered another attack under her teeth before she changed her mind. "I mean, have you ever looked back on a conversation you had, or maybe just one thing somebody said to you and realized you got it... _completely_ wrong?"

It wasn't difficult to figure out what Rachel was talking about, of course. There were many things Quinn had said to her that Rachel hadn't understood correctly at the time. Most of them in high school. But Quinn didn't have that problem.

"No."

Rachel's entire body seemed to sag."Oh."

Again, Quinn felt a punishing stab in response - she sighed and sifted through her memories, through times when she was too irritated to care what Rachel meant, and at length, she recalled, "There was...that period of time when we were the only members of the celibacy club. You used to ask me at every meeting what I thought about this artist or that artist. Taylor Swift or The Wallflowers or Daughtry. And at the time I just thought...does she ever think about anything else? I didn't understand...you just wanted to sing with me."

She had earned herself another light-from-within beam, so blinding Rachel truly looked like a star fallen to earth, and she was quick to leap on the opportunity to be closer, not only physically, scooting herself nearer yet, but bursting out in explanation:

"I wanted to be your friend. I guess I thought if I could get you to sing with me, it would just happen." She shrugged her shoulders, smiling slyly. "After all that, I still only got one song out of you."

Quinn felt on the verge of a laugh. "That's not true, you, me, and Santana - "

"But I wanted it to be just you and me."

Just Quinn and Rachel. What a novel idea. No Santana, no Finn, no Jesse St. James. Just the two of them. The thought had no basis in reality, of course. There was always going to be someone else, guaranteed especially after Rachel and Jesse were married, but - Rachel seemed mesmerized, staring ahead with a half a smile planted on her red lips. Quinn dipped to catch her eyes.

"What?"

Rachel started, and instantly flushed under Quinn's inquisitive stare. "I was just thinking...about that Meghan Trainor song."

Rachel always made it far too easy.

"I don't think this is an appropriate time to be thinking about my ass."

Flushed turned into bright red, red as a beet, in fact, but Rachel was laughing the first real laugh Quinn had gotten out of her since this whole thing started, squeaking, "No! The one with John Legend."

A few titters followed, as Rachel struggled to regain control of herself and Quinn, smugly pleased, couldn't contain a grin in spite of the sting it spread through her cheek. Within a few minutes, however, Rachel had taken to staring affectionately at her, and Quinn could read the question in her eyes before it passed her lips: "Will you sing it with me?"

Quinn shook her head, and Rachel dropped the ice pack to the table. "We don't have any music."

Her enthusiasm was undampened. "So we'll go acapella." She poked out her lower lip. "Come on, Quinn. It could be the last chance we ever get to sing together."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she deadpanned.

"Please?"

It was cheesy; it was silly. To sing some love song with Rachel in the visitors' room of a prison, chained to a table with bruised ribs, cheek, and a sore tongue, awaiting trial for murdering her father? To sing some love song with Rachel at all was something straight out of a book of Quinn's fantasies leftover from high school daydreams. Something she didn't even think about anymore, but which Rachel obviously did think about now, in spite of Jesse St. James. And she was looking at Quinn with such hope, even adulation, with that full red lip wavering at her and her hands clasped in mock prayer. It was entirely unfair.

And even more unfair was that Rachel could see the very moment she'd won, bearing an immediate grin of victory and dropping her hands to her lap, though Quinn could no longer bring herself to be irritated by her own transparency when it came to one Rachel Berry. If anything, it warmed her to know that in spite of Rachel's worries, she knew Quinn quite well, if unconsciously so; her warmth only grew as Rachel started singing, unabashed in spite of their circumstances and smiling ever-so-brightly.

" _I found myself dreaming,_

 _In silver and gold,_

 _Like a scene from a movie_

 _That every broken heart knows_..."

She should have known that if anything could make her forget, even peripherally, that she was in a prison, it would be Rachel's singing. Not just the sound of her voice, of course. Rachel was a performer; it was never only that voice, melodious though it was, that drew you in. It was the way she glowed while she was singing, and the way she looked at Quinn now. Shining - the phrase was cliche, but like a moth to a flame, Quinn couldn't look away. It brought her back to the old choir room and a younger, perhaps sillier Rachel, bearing infatuated doe eyes and a grin between every line, expecting the object of her affection not to notice her obvious choice of song. She wondered, when she began shyly crooning, if Rachel saw a Cheerios uniform and a bright room instead of a beat up prison inmate in a grey world.

" _In the blink of an eye,_

 _Just a whisper of smoke,_

 _You could lose everything._

 _The truth is you never know_..."

By the time Rachel joined in with Quinn to finish out the song, her cheeks bore a full, pink flush - her eyes dashed up to Quinn's and she curled her hair behind her ears like a shy schoolgirl, but somehow the very trait Quinn had once criticized so harshly was, displayed toward her, endearing. The chains binding her wrists disallowed the motion her impulses wanted to make, to take Rachel's hands away from her face and to draw her near. It was unnecessary anyway; Rachel slid closer on her own.

" _So I'm gonna love you_

 _Like I'm gonna lose you._

 _I'm gonna hold you,_

 _Like I'm saying goodbye_..."

The silence settled between them heavily, so much so Quinn could hear not only the ticking of the clock high up on the wall, but each and every breath Rachel took. Or perhaps her breathing had just grown that thick in the aftermath of the song, in looking at Quinn as if she were Aphrodite herself.

Rachel was near enough that Quinn could have leaned over, handcuffs or no, and stolen her lips.

"They haven't ended our time yet," Rachel noted, sotto.

Quinn matched her tone when she muttered: "Eager to leave?"

The response was immediate, Rachel shaking her brunette mane: "No."

Quinn nodded toward the side door. "The guard you yelled at, Thomas Locke, he's stretching it for us."

She gnawed at her lip, glancing aside. "He's a friend, isn't he?"

"Of sorts."

"I'm sorry I yelled at him."

She shrugged. "He can take it."

Rachel breathed in, ducked her head. "Quinn, I - "

"Have you found a production yet?"

For a moment, Rachel's jaw only flapped in silence, but once she'd gathered herself, something of a smile stirred her lips. "Sort of. I've gotten some of the glee club together for a little project."

"At least that's something."

"You were right. I need to keep occupied. But I can't go back home until you can, too," she went on earnestly, "Maybe, in the meantime, I can at least get you back to Lima."

Quinn tossed her head. "I told you, I'm okay here, Rachel."

"Clearly you're not."

"It was just a little sparring match that got out of hand."

Rachel pushed out a huff of a breath. "Even if I believed you weren't understating things just so I wouldn't worry, I wouldn't care. You're not safe here."

"Rachel - "

"Just let me take care of you."

Before Quinn could find her breath again, the door opened and Laura appeared, a hand on her hip.

"Time's up."

Quinn dropped her teeth on her bottom lip to cut off any protests that might try to escape. If Rachel could contain herself, stand and make her way to the door in silence, Quinn could certainly do so. Of course, Rachel couldn't part completely until she had taken one more look, so Quinn straightened and smiled, while Rachel pressed her hands over her stomach and swallowed.

"Quinn, I...be careful."

She nodded reassuringly. "I will. Goodbye."

Rachel pulled at her lip again, and then Quinn was left to wait in the silent, cold of the grey room until Locke came in to retrieve her. Of course, he couldn't resist one comment while he was unlocking her from the table.

"Were you _singing_?"

Quinn glowered at him. "Shut up."

He grinned.


	20. Passion

**Passion**

It wasn't until Rachel shifted her father's borrowed Buick into park outside of Rick McCormack's office in downtown Lima that she regained the full force of the ire she'd felt the very moment she saw a bruise on Quinn's face. Not that that furor had faded since then; it had simply been cast aside in favor of other, more pressing emotions. For instance, the inconvenient, but not unpleasant tingling concentrated between her thighs which had made the hour-long drive from the reformatory a torture and which had persisted since Quinn Fabray set a stunning hazel gaze upon her and cooed, ' _So I'll kiss you longer, baby, any chance that I get._ '

The wondering over whether their voices could match what she had with Jesse no longer plagued Rachel. It was just as it had been years ago, only perhaps their voices were richer with age and practice. They met and matched and mixed and it sounded - gorgeous. Only this time, perhaps because of the tone of the song - a bold choice on Rachel's part, though Quinn hadn't seemed to notice anything - not melancholy like their mashup, Quinn's breathy alto stirred Rachel's heart, plucking it to faster beats, and her libido, awakening it as only a song from a lover could.

Once, Rachel would have blamed this easy reaction on her own proclivity for falling in love every time she sang a duet with someone. But now, after so many years and so many productions, she could proudly say she had moved beyond the impact of a song's emotions so that her own were not so easily swayed. But Quinn had easily swayed her, even in the midst of her terrible rage.

Rachel focused on it now, marching up to the brick building emblazoned with McCormack and his two partners' names in gold lettering; marching was far more effective at squelching the urge to wriggle and squirm and set a hand between her legs than sitting in the car. She burst past the secretary at the front desk straight into the waiting area outside McCormack's office, and she would have made a grand and traditional Rachel Berry entrance inside had she not been faced so unexpectedly with the sight of her mother.

Until Detective Graham had mentioned her name and the district attorney's badgering, Rachel hadn't even considered Shelby's involvement in the whole ordeal, though, once she'd been confronted with the idea, she'd realized it made sense. Although the district attorney would likely be relying primarily on the testimony of his witness (until now, when Mrs. Hummel had so fortuitously realized and corrected her mistake) and his experts (which would likely be called into question, given that the blood splatter analyst had made such a serious misjudgement), he would be gathering character witnesses - just as McCormack was - and who better to make Quinn look bad - look crazy - than Beth's adoptive mother, the woman Quinn had tried to steal from, to frame as a bad parent?

Nonetheless, Graham's assurance that Shelby was refusing to cooperate had eased Rachel's mind about the whole matter - until now.

"Mom?"

At least Shelby looked about as surprised. "Rachel! What are you doing here?"

Before she could speak, McCormack, leaning unbothered in his office doorway, drawled, "Undoubtedly to talk about Ms. Fabray."

The sound of his voice swiveled Rachel like a pointer to a rabbit trail, Shelby instantly forgotten.

"It's important," Rachel defended, his tone bringing heat to her cheeks. "She needs to get out of that place as soon as humanly possible, and you're the only person who might be able to do it."

"Yes, but, see, first there has to be a trial - "

Rachel seethed in impatience. "You don't understand - they're hurting her."

"Who is?"

The initial shock returned the moment Shelby's voice interrupted Rachel's impending outburst fueled by urgency, panic, and fury. She gawped at her mother again -

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Shelby sighed audibly, a pinched smile on her lips. "Talking about Ms. Fabray. The DA has - "

"You can fill her in later; I need to talk to Ms. Berry now."

McCormack curled his finger at Rachel and promptly retreated into his office, and though she was aching to follow, she paused, halfway between knowing if Shelby was going to get Quinn in more trouble, willingly or not, and getting Quinn _out_ of that place. Shelby placed a reassuring hand over her arm.

"We'll talk."

Rachel breathed. "Can you meet me at the Lima Bean in a half hour?"

She nodded. "Of course. Go on."

Rachel didn't need to be told twice, and McCormack didn't waste any time.

The door clicked shut and he prompted, "Tell me."

She pulled in a long breath - "I went for my monthly visit to Quinn today; when they brought me to the room, she had this _huge purple bruise_ on her cheek - " she demonstrated with a wild gesture " - and the guard told me she got it in some scuffle or something and Quinn said it was just a-a boxing match that got out of hand, but I _know_ it was more than that."

He was stroking his chin, a twinkle playing in his green eyes. "What makes you think so?"

"Quinn is always trying to play things down. Especially with me. She even let the guard put her in isolation without telling him she's claustrophobic," she groused, unable to stop her own gesticulating now that there was no ice pack to grip onto - but between flailing arms, she caught McCormack's new expression - and scowled. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because this is excellent news," he grinned. "If she's being abused, it'll cast doubt on her ability to murder someone. It'll cast doubt as to whether or not she's receiving a fair trial - and that's not to mention all the sympathy she'll get. All I have to do is bring attention to it."

Rachel couldn't contain her own beam now; in spite of his nasty phrasing, he was right. _Something_ was going right. Something _Rachel_ was doing for Quinn was going right. Quinn might be back in Lima, still in jail, but Lima, in a matter of days - and Rachel would no longer be restricted by the prison's once a month rule, only by the jail's visiting hours; she could see Quinn and be with Quinn and in her ecstasy, she nearly bounced on the spot.

"So you can get her moved?"

He shrugged dismissively. "Maybe, maybe not - it doesn't matter as long as the judge, and more importantly, the media, know."

The elation died a quick death. "Wait - what do you mean, it _doesn't matter_?"

McCormack's own smarmy grin flipped; he heaved a sigh. "The two of you… Listen, if I can get her transferred back here, I'll be happy - but it'll be a bonus. You have to look at the big picture here. Sometimes you have to sacrifice a battle to win the war."

Rachel's jaw only steeled. "But you're not going to do that. You're going to _fight_ for her."

For a flicker, she thought he was about to argue with her. His green eyes narrowed and he leaned toward her, mouth puckering in readiness to try to convince and sway her, but all of a sudden, his energy sapped. His eyes turned heavenward and he rocked back in his leather chair.

"Yeah. I'll fight," he conceded, and Rachel's hackles lowered in relief until he muttered, "As much as she'll let me."

"What?"

Again, he seemed ready to wave her off, only to realize all at once it was fruitless and grunt, "She's not been the most cooperative client, let's leave it at that."

For the first time, Rachel plunked herself down in the chair across from him in a gesture of finality - and glared. "Let's not."

"I'm not at liberty to discuss cases."

"Broad strokes, then," she pressed, and his mouth curled unpleasantly.

"She's allowing her good nature to get in the way of her good sense," he enunciated, as if he might get dirty even speaking the words. Then he paused, considering. "Protecting individuals who have the power to do her a great deal of damage, for instance."

It took Rachel a few moments to decipher this clue, the only tidbit he would allow her between 'as much as she'll let me' and 'uncooperative.' Though it was in Quinn's nature to balk at help, it hadn't occurred to Rachel that she might be resisting in this particular instance, when so much was at stake. Of course, she had to consider the source - this slick lawyer who seemed willing to tackle any avenue to win this case; not that Rachel disapproved. But it made it more difficult to identify where Quinn might object against his taking action against 'individuals who had the power to do her a great deal of damage.'

Rachel could come up with only a handful of people, and there was no reason she could think of that Quinn might want to protect the district attorney or any of the experts who had locked her in as the number one suspect. But the witness who had locked her in - Carole Hummel - Rachel was flooded simultaneously with a sense of pride in Quinn's 'good nature' and foreboding over what might've happened, and what could still happen, should Quinn continue down this road.

It wasn't that Rachel _wanted_ Mrs. Hummel attacked or hurt - or her mother - what if the district attorney put Shelby on the stand and badgered her until she revealed what Quinn had done - and then McCormack did the same, until she admitted to sleeping with Noah?

True, Noah was an adult now, and even back then he'd been at the legal age of consent, but…

Shelby would have to face consequences for sleeping with a student when she'd been in a position of authority, even if it only damaged her reputation. What if she could no longer work with kids? What if - what if they took Beth away from her?

And where would Beth go, with Quinn in prison and Noah overseas?

Perhaps Rachel's imaginings were tending toward the wild; it wasn't anything new, only she typically dreamt the best case scenario, not the worst. Now she saw what Quinn saw. She didn't particularly like the view.

Maybe none of this would have a bearing on whether or not Quinn would be found guilty, she tried.

But it could. And in that case…

Rachel straightened. "Don't let her stand in your way. Do what you need to do."

"She's the one paying me."

"Then _I'll_ pay you," she snapped, and his eyebrows lifted. "Whatever it takes."

#

Half an hour later, Rachel found Shelby awaiting her with a cup of tea ready and still steaming, and try as she might, she couldn't quite shake the guilt of her disloyalty upon such a simple but sweet gesture. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it - she'd been so wracked with guilt over her disloyalty to Jesse that this time she pressed the exhaustive feeling aside and sat herself down with a grateful smile.

'What were you doing there' begged to leave her lips. "I'm sorry about the wait."

Shelby smiled. "That's all right. I just hope Quinn is okay…"

The implication didn't register immediately - Rachel gasped. "Oh, yes. I mean, no, but yes. I mean, she has a bruise on her face the size of a pumpkin, but Mr. McCormack is going to try to have her moved back to Lima until the trial, so."

"I'm glad to hear it." She hesitated, dropping her eyes to the Styrofoam cup between her own palms. "I wish I had better news myself. The district attorney has subpoenaed me for the trial."

Rachel nodded and pressed, "So why were you with Mr. McCormack? Was he just questioning you - "

"No, actually - I set up the meeting." She straightened, and Rachel caught the fear hiding behind her mother's solid jaw. She breathed in. "Quinn isn't the only one who made mistakes back then and...for Beth's sake, I don't want it to come out that...that…"

With a start, Rachel realized - Shelby didn't think she knew.

"That you slept with Noah."

The wide-eyed gawk she received told her that there might have been a more tactful way to approach that subject. But it was too late now.

Shelby's naturally paled face had gone unusually pink with shame, her eyes darting away at the same time as they desperately sought Rachel's. "How did you know that?"

There was little point in covering. "Quinn told me."

Now that oh-so familiar face wrinkled in a perfect picture of puzzlement. "Why would she do that…?"

The words were spoken more to herself than to Rachel, but still, they gave her pause. Indeed, why _had_ Quinn come running to Rachel with that scandalous information? Why not straight to a child protective services officer, or at least to Noah's mother or Principal Figgins? It wasn't as if Rachel could back up her claim. Did she want Rachel angry with Shelby? But what difference would that make?

"I guess she wanted someone on her side," she realized.

Shelby eyed her cautiously. "But you...were on mine?"

"I was always on Quinn's side. That's why I told her not to go through with telling Principal Figgins. I couldn't let her keep hurting herself."

Though Rachel and Shelby had become comfortable enough for these small moments - a note and flowers on Rachel's opening nights, attending Rachel's wedding, coffee and tea at a cafe to catch up - some territory wasn't so easy to trespass, and it was never more obvious than when Shelby paused, collected herself, and dragged her words out, as she did now.

"I...didn't realize the two of you were...so close."

They certainly had been that morning. Rachel only hoped she wasn't as red as she felt.

"Well, we weren't back then."

Or were they? If Rachel was Quinn's second choice after Noah, the father, officially abandoned her in her quest to regain custody of Beth, then what did that say? Was it only because Rachel was Shelby's daughter, and therefore might have reason to want her 'replacement' back in Quinn's arms? Or did Quinn feel she had no one else to turn to, no one else she could trust? But how could that be when she had Mercedes, Santana, Brittany?

Once again, Rachel felt as if she were on the verge of some great discovery about Quinn Fabray, only, as usual, there was some crucial piece missing.

At least one had been filled in properly, with the revelation that Quinn was bisexual, or possibly a lesbian - she hadn't seen fit to clear that up, and Rachel wasn't about to ask after the response she'd gotten. It didn't much matter either way, she supposed. Quinn liked women. She just didn't like Rachel Berry - though after that song…

Rachel couldn't entirely fool herself, of course. She'd seen Quinn perform a hundred times; Quinn was very, very good at seductive, sexy. Why should Like I'm Gonna Lose You be any different?

All that rationale couldn't stop her imagination, however.

Shelby's questioning gaze abruptly recalled Rachel from the never-far picture of Quinn's porcelain skin. Her fingers tingled with memory and she swiped them over her hot cheeks, grinning like a toddler in trouble under Shelby's increasingly curious scrutiny.

"Rachel…? Are you and Quinn - "

"No," she burst, unable to pull the disappointment from her tone. "No, we're just friends."

Shelby didn't look particularly convinced.

"Good friends."

"All right…"

"Best friends." Rachel was on the verge of squirming for entirely different reasons than arousal; she cleared her throat and steered Shelby's focus toward the more important issue: "Which is why I want to know what you plan on saying at the trial."

At last, Shelby's familiar gaze trailed away; she puffed. "Well, I...have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, don't I? But that doesn't mean we won't try to undo whatever damage the DA is planning on doing with my testimony. I talked it over with Mr. McCormack and we've decided the best way to resolve the issue with...with Beth's father and to help Quinn is to talk about my own past indiscretions. If the jury hears that she's not the only woman who gave up a baby who suffered a...'psychotic break' - " here she rolled her eyes " - then maybe they'll think twice about it."

Rachel's affection for her mother doubled even as her curiosity piqued. "You had a - well…?"

"Oh, after I had you, I went through the same thing she did. I changed my hair. Got a tattoo. Gave attitude to anyone who looked at me wrong," she drawled lightly, almost playfully. "Who knows? If your dads had brought you into my life again, I might have tried to steal you, too."

A shy smile blossomed over Rachel's lips under Shelby's affectionate gaze. It was rare Shelby felt brave enough to share such sentiment with her, and Rachel reveled in it - and the reassurance that Shelby was all for helping Quinn - so much that the rest of their reunion passed in pleasant discussion of Rachel's little glee project, though she left out the bit about her audio books, and Beth.

It was late afternoon by the time Rachel arrived back at her father's apartment. The utter stillness that followed the moment she stepped inside told her that he wasn't home, still hard at work, but she glanced about the rooms nonetheless, finding nothing but a note and some cash for her to buy dinner - he'd be late tonight. She smiled, tucking the unnecessary bills back into his dresser drawer before she passed into the quiet of her bedroom.

The door clicked shut under her weight, and her father, Shelby, McCormack - they were forgotten at the sight of her bed. Remembered instead, rushing back in like water from a dam, was every thought, every fantasy, every sensation Quinn had spurred in her since that morning, so that Rachel was clutching the doorknob at the base of her back for purchase.

 _Quinn._ Her entire body shuddered with the name.

As if on cue, Rachel's vivid imagination conjured a vision of her desire. Quinn in that bed. Perhaps waiting for her, lounging up on an elbow so that all her blonde hair hung caressing her shoulders and her long, long neck. Her lithe body hidden only by the crisp white sheet, though hugging her so that Rachel could follow every curve, like a present wrapped tightly enough she could guess at the contents, but which she'd have to rip open to truly know its wonders. And her eyes, those same bedroom eyes she had penetrated Rachel with during their song, eyes that said, ' _I hope you enjoy this as much as I do. Are you ready? I am._ '

With only a brief wobble caused by her heels, which she quickly kicked off, Rachel made way for her suitcase, tucked neatly underneath the bed, and started digging. It wasn't as though she really thought she'd _need_ it on her honeymoon, and she'd have been mortified had airport security found it, but - what did she need it for now?

Her imagined Quinn beckoned with a curl of her finger, and Rachel crawled up onto the mattress, submitting herself wholly to the whims of a spectre with not a speck of regret. Quinn had awoken this appetite in Rachel, a hunger she'd not felt in its full force for months, and she couldn't resist satiating it, even if she was forced to use half-formed images of the source of her wanting instead of the real thing. Even if she was forced to use her own practiced hands in palming over her breasts, in winding between clenched thighs and under the grip of soaked panties to satisfy her need for fullness, all the while pretending.

Pretending to herself that Quinn Fabray hovered over her, that she could feel the tickling of her silky blonde hair against her cheeks instead of her own locks messily invading her face. Pretending that Quinn's hazel eyes stared down at her, burning gold in their intensity. Pretending that Quinn was inside of her, driving her fingers enthusiastically between Rachel's swelled folds, dedicating her thumb to pressuring her clit into a frenzy of sparks. Pretending that Quinn was singing to her, as she replayed that delicate voice in her head.

' _So I'll kiss you longer, baby_

 _Any chance that I get_ '

Rachel's body coiled in a series of tremors, and one name rang from her throat without conscious thought.

It was only in the exhausted, satisfied moments that followed that Rachel remembered Jesse. But this time, it wasn't with the guilt of someone who had betrayed the love of their life. Rather, it was with the guilt that he wasn't the love of her life.


	21. Expression

**Expression**

Quinn's fingers hadn't itched this way in - years. The exact amount of time, she couldn't be sure of; she only knew that somewhere along the way, she had set down her pen or pencil after jotting a doodle on the corner of some notebook, and hadn't felt the need to pick it back up since. Maybe it had been sometime after college, when she'd still been sketching caricatures of her least favorite teachers, or drawing the odd political cartoon for Yale Daily News. But it had never been near the amount of scribbling she'd done in high school, fleeing the place so hard and so fast she sometimes forgot there was anything good about it. Rachel always served as a strong reminder, and it was her CDs that had done it now.

McCormack had given the box to Quinn on his most recent visit, although not before snapping a few hundred shots of her bruise and interrogating her, Locke, and the medic who had examined her about the incident that had caused it and her other injuries.

"Ms. Berry tells me you were boxing when this happened," he began, tie already loosened - she could only assume in preparation for his usual difficulty in prying answers out of her. His pen wasn't even clicked yet, stabbing uselessly at the legal pad before him.

Quinn nodded.

He puffed. " _Why_ were you boxing?"

"Variety. Running around the track and shooting hoops gets a little old sometimes."

His green eyes narrowed on her, but he nodded. "And who was the other inmate you were boxing with?"

"I don't know her name. Everyone just calls her 'Hood.' But I could point her out to you."

Another stare. At any other time, she would have found his blatant skepticism over her sudden cooperation amusing. She pressed on.

"I'm very familiar with her, and her friends. They've been making it a point to cause trouble for me since I was transferred here."

"And she decided to take it a step further," McCormack concluded, straightening, his pen out, now accepting her responsiveness with all the vigor of a guard dog unleashed from its chain.

"I guess. We were sparring and I signaled for a break. She ignored it."

"How?"

"First she hit me in the ribs. I told her I wanted a break and she...taunted me."

"And you…?"

"I took off my pads and walked away. She jumped me and started beating me into the ground, so I kneed her in the back and got the upper hand. That's when Locke pulled me off of her."

"And took you to isolation."

Quinn shook her head swiftly. "To the nurse, first."

"But then to isolation, even though you are documented as claustrophobic."

"He didn't know," she defended sharply.

McCormack waved his pen at her. "You said she's caused problems for you before, give me a for instance, and tell me what the guards did about it."

"They hardly ever notice," she admitted. "They - the other inmates - find ways around them. And most of it's verbal, but they'll knock you down or take food off your plate. Hood dashed her cigarette ashes down the back of my shirt once."

His eyebrows raised marginally. "Do you know why she has it in for you?"

Quinn pulled in a breath. "When we were fighting, she said something about my father. I wondered if maybe he's the one who put her in here, but. She might've just been trying to get a rise out of me."

As she'd expected, McCormack leapt on the idea with glee. "Or he could have ratted her out. The few dealers Graham has found say he threatened them for free product."

She gnawed on her lip. "Can you find out?"

The brightness in his eyes suddenly dulled with realization. "I could probably get my hands on the tape, but more than likely, it was an anonymous tip."

She nodded. "Which wouldn't do us any good even if it was him."

"Precisely." McCormack leaned back with a sigh, stroking his chin. "Any alternate theories?"

Quinn's eyebrow twitched. "I'm a rich white girl who's going to get away with far worse than they've ever done, as far as they're concerned?"

He scowled at her. "That's hardly something I can use."

She shrugged. "You're the lawyer."

"That I am, and I'll have the media in a frenzy by tomorrow - that, you can count on. And I'll find out more about this 'Hood,' too, while I'm at it." His hands went to work clearing the metal table before them, sweeping away his files, but he paused once his fingers were on the lid of his briefcase, readying to close it. "I nearly forgot. I was asked to make a special delivery to you."

The infamous eyebrow arched to its usual height in spite of Quinn's best efforts this time, and McCormack fished a cardboard box from a corner of the case, sliding it over to her chained hands. The packing tape on it had been re-attached after the guards' inspection, but there were no other markings to be found.

She stared. "What is it?"

He stood and smirked at her, swinging his briefcase at his side. "I guess you'll just have to open it. And by the way, whatever sparked this decision to actually talk to the person responsible for getting you off on a murder charge today, keep it up."

It wasn't difficult to figure out, even before Quinn had the package back to the privacy of her cell. Rachel. Rachel had done something in addition to making her little visit to McCormack. A present of some sort, maybe a small cake with a file in it. But there had been no cake, no file, only a stack of CDs which only just fit in the container Rachel had chosen to send them in.

Quinn's second guess, that Rachel had sent her a library of original Broadway cast recordings in return, died the moment she looked through them, CD after CD labeled with Rachel's neat and bubbly script: e.e. cummings, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Wuthering Heights, Atlas Shrugged, Pride and Prejudice, Gone with the Wind Part 1, The Price of Salt, and finally, the last in the box, For Quinn.

This was the first Quinn listened to the next day, when she got her hands on a pair of old chunky headphones and a scratched up CD player from the media room, and from the very first song, her fingers itched.

All her friends, blasting her ears with that song which would forever crinkle her mouth and send her feet tapping, Don't Stop Believing, brought her straight back to sitting in the back of those risers, sketching a rude cartoon of Mr. Schuester and his ridiculously curly hair until Santana and Brittany's giggles brought too much attention to them, or until they were finally called to join the rehearsal after he'd finished working with Rachel and Finn. The once jealousy and fury-fueled moments nearly caused a laugh to emerge from her now, reminded of how deluded she had made herself, trying to blot out Rachel from existence when it was Finn she wanted gone.

Lean On Me assisted in overwhelming Quinn with old guilt as Rachel and Kitty and Artie's distinct voices pushed her from the back of the room to the front, sitting next to that very boy instead of her cheerleading cohorts. Her hand found its way to her stomach then, pressing into the fabric of her prison garb where there had once been that ever-growing and despised bump.

It was only when Kitty's voice invited Quinn back into the present that she felt the reemergence of a smile, as her own mini-me said proudly, "Don't listen to the haters. You're still _my_ idol, Quinn" and wandered into a lazy, light rendition of Ain't No Mountain High Enough. Most of her interaction with Kitty had come down to comments on Facebook since those few visits Quinn had made to their alma mater, yet the mental image of that youthful cheerleader with the devious smirk seemed as fresh as if she had seen Kitty only yesterday, and a spattering of pom-poms found their way onto the edge of the table.

Another message, this time from Artie, startled Quinn out of her vandalism: "Wheelbros for life, Quinn. I've got your back." This and Reach Out I'll Be There left Quinn smiling into the safety of her palm, tracing circles on the tabletop with her now carefully capped pen. Artie, too, had faded into the ether of the internet in terms of communication, but he could never fade from her mind's eye. Always the boy popping wheelies and busting raps across the auditorium stage reminded her - I'm Still Standing.

The next piece brought her to a full-on grin, when not only Sam, but Stevie and Stacey announced to her, "We believe in you, Aunt Quinn!" and then serenaded her with an acoustic version of Still On Your Side. Though their voices had aged considerably since she had become 'Aunt Quinn,' she still saw the little sandy-haired boy and girl prancing around their big brother's legs, consuming her with a maternal drive she had striven to bury for the last year. Perhaps it was that drive which had made her so fond of Sam; perhaps it was what made her support the Evans family now, years after she and Sam had made their peace. A guitar now faintly designed the CD player.

Quinn was nearly tempted to shoot through the songs in order to hear all of her little messages first, to find out who had contributed to Rachel's collaboration, who still believed in her innocence even if they couldn't be there - but the next had no message leading up to it, and she was glad she hadn't skipped when she heard Artie and Kitty with Rachel, attempting a hip hop song with her ballad-tailored voice on Umbrella. Her sides ached in the attempt not to burst into laughter, particularly near the end, when Artie and Kitty couldn't hold back either, and their laughter brought Rachel's giggles into her ears, as well. She stopped the track abruptly after Artie commented, "Whitney Houston is rolling in her grave _for_ Rihanna" and Rachel laughed out, "Hey!"

It was too much, too much happiness at once. This kind of joy, here, needed to be spread out. Besides, she didn't want to risk her band of antagonists seeing her happy. No, she had to keep this safe, secret. So she checked out the headphones and CD player and smuggled them up to her cell to wait until evening, before lights out, to listen to the rest of it.

Quinn was startled when Puck's voice was the first she heard that night, telling her in a fuzzy recording, "Hey, baby mama. I'm sorry I can't be there right now, but. Rachel said this'll help, so." She saw him as from the other side of a tunnel, dressed as she best remembered him in his Air Force uniform, a guitar strapped around his broad shoulders as he strummed I'll Stand By You. When he finished, the light on his side of the tunnel went out, and the spotlight on that old familiar auditorium stage turned on.

Joe stood there at the waiting microphone with yet another guitar, but the drawing that wound up on her pillow by the end of These Times was a cross, due in large part to his personalized message, "'Who is it that overcomes the world? Only the one who believes that Jesus is the Son of God.' You are going to beat this, Quinn." And though religion had become a rather cold thing to her in the current state of the world, in her current state, from him, the words were warming.

Mercedes' sweet voice greeted Quinn's ears in the longest message yet, as if she were only leaving a voicemail on the plane back to LA, as if they'd just had lunch an hour ago: "Hey, Quinn. I know if you could answer me you'd tell me it's fine, but since you can't, I want you to know that I'd be doing exactly what Rachel's doing if she weren't already there to support you. So don't tell her to go home, because she's there for all of us, and you know if you told me that, I'd tell you to stuff it. I miss you and I love you, and I hope that this helps you in some small way."

The freshly inked cross began to leak sideways under the influence of salty drips, but Quinn hardly noticed, enthralled as always by Mercedes' rich belt as she sang Borrow Mine for her.

Keep Holding On by no means assisted Quinn in restraining her tears; again, she was in high school, dancing amongst her peers, and Rachel was staring at her. Singing to her. It had been the first and last time that had ever happened, until Rachel's visit the other day. And it had filled Quinn so much, she had scribbled through near an entire sketchbook afterward. She itched for one now, for paper and pen to scrawl out her tears in ink.

When she listened to the next and final track, she _had to have them_.

Armed with headphones and CD player, Quinn trailed Carol to the art room the next morning and, playing Rachel's track over and over and over, she drew over every inch of paper for as long as they allowed. Scribbles, portraits, doodles came pouring out of her pen like a waterfall, drowning the sheets she pulled in front of her while Rachel sang in her ears, ' _What have I done? I wish I could run away from this ship going under…_ '

It took Quinn a few days to break away from that haunting rhythm and to delve into the audiobooks, but the constance of Rachel's voice only spurred her renewed artistic energy to greater heights. It wasn't until an evening when Quinn was deep into Wuthering Heights and dragging her pen over the thick pad of paper on her knees that she even realized just how often she had fallen to drawing her once-favorite subject.

"Is that your girlfriend?"

So seldom did Quinn actually hear Carol speak, it was startling to her every time, even now that they'd been spending more time together. Side-by-side was actually a more accurate description. And the question was even more catching. Quinn squinted her eyes at the page and tugged down her headphones. A faint smile teased around her mouth.

"No. Just a friend," she returned.

Carol peered once more at the drawing. "You draw her a lot."

Nostalgia was stronger than ever now, with her old friends' voices constantly ringing in her ears, and now a missing voice came to her. Brittany's observation, back when. At the time, Quinn had simply added another wart and bared her teeth in what passed for a grin in those days. Now she paused. Her fingers hadn't itched this way in - years.

Was it because she was locked away? Forced to push her feelings onto paper once again? Or was Rachel's voice doing it again? Talking, singing her into love again?

'Again' seemed a poor choice of word, as if Quinn had, at some point, ever stopped loving Rachel Berry. But she had moved on. From that promising flame of hope which evaporated into smoke each time she reached for it. From the vain idea that she could make Rachel Berry happy, that she could deserve Rachel Berry, that Rachel Berry could love her. From 'could' and 'would' and 'should have' and 'what if.' From waiting. From being in love.

Quinn had been so certain she had nursed herself out of love.

"If you turned the pen, you could get better shading."

Carol was still staring up at the drawing. Unlike drawings of years before, filled with hateful words and ugly scrapes of her pen, this one was true to life. Well, as true to life as Quinn's conjuring of Rachel Berry could be, center stage under that spotlight, singing Get It Right in that navy dress she had worn at her last visit, when she had beamed at Quinn and sang to her so earnestly, big brown eyes piercing and crying out her thoughts before the rest of her could even begin to give them away, singing Get It Right - to Quinn, and only Quinn.

She handed the pen over to Carol. "Show me?"


	22. Suspect

**Suspect**

It had only been a matter of time after McCormack sparked the media back into a frenzy over the _Fabray v Ohio_ case. Graham first saw the news in the headlines of a local rag: Squad Turns On Ex-Cheerleader. Lamb had been chuckling over the never accurate Israel piece at his desk Monday morning, but it hadn't taken long for the station TVs to start airing a tamer version of the same story, along with the same pictures of a bruised Quinn Fabray and the same clip of a stern-faced Rick McCormack in front of an array of microphones adorned with local news logos.

"My client has been the target of a miscarriage of justice from the beginning of this investigation. It doesn't surprise me that that mistreatment has continued in her incarceration."

"Are you saying law enforcement was behind the attack on Quinn Fabray?"

"There's no way to know that. What we do know is that my client was unduly attacked and then punished with isolation - in spite of a documented case of claustrophobia."

"But does this change the case against her?"

A glint entered McCormack's eye. Undoubtedly, he'd been waiting for this question.

"Doesn't it? The instigator in this attack was a 5'4", 100 pound drug dealer and my client had difficulty fighting her off. How could she have easily murdered 5'10", 200 pound man like Russell Fabray? And with no injuries sustained from his attempts to defend himself? And more importantly, why weren't the police asking these questions four months ago? Why isn't the district attorney now?"

The news aired every few hours, sometimes with a debate on prisoner treatment or an interview with a blood spatter analyst following, and each time, the sinking weight in Graham's stomach grew heavier. Matthews sent the barrage of calls directly to his desk, so that he was left creaking in his old chair for the rest of the week with Miller smirking across at him and reporters in his ear demanding to know: Was there an open investigation into the Fabray case? Were there any other suspects? Why hadn't they ruled Quinn Fabray out when they arrested her? Why hadn't they investigated further before closing the case? Had their blood spatter analyst been formally disciplined for his inaccuracy in reading the crime scene? Does the district attorney have a personal vendetta against Quinn Fabray?

On and on it went, stealing time away from Graham's actual investigation - and not just into Russell Fabray's murder, though it had become a dire priority in his thoughts. It was only a matter of time, he remembered over and over. Not that there was much else he could do for Quinn Fabray for the moment. His investigation had stalled even before McCormack's interference, the strings he had followed off of the web leading only to dead ends.

They had found five full fingerprints on the bags from the Fabray home that matched persons in their database. Two unknowns. One partial. The five they'd spoken to all had solid alibis for the night of June 30th. Quinn Fabray remained the only suspect.

Manila flew in front of his face. "Graham."

He stared up at Miller, scowling and coffee in hand, and pointed once to the phone at his ear. She rolled her eyes and plunked down with her file.

"I'm sorry, I can't really comment on that right now," he puffed out for what felt like the hundredth time in the past four days.

The reporter huffed; a common response. "Can you comment on anything?"

His silence was met with a click. He lowered the phone back onto its hook, ignoring Miller's now Cheshire-like expression.

Graham nodded toward the file open in her lap. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "Forensics wants you."

As soon as he stood, the phone rang. With a sigh, he pressed hold and tossed it to Miller at once, taking a small pleasure in her fumbling for it between file and coffee.

"Could you get that?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"What else? No comment."

The moment he stepped into forensics three turns down the hall, he was being beckoned by three techs burdened with files - one of whom he recognized not as their own LPD blood spatter analyst, but as the consultant from Cleveland. Grady nodded to his approach.

"Graham."

"What are you doing here?"

"What else? News interviews. But I brought some work with me," she divulged, brandishing a file at him. "I thought you might want to share this with Ms. Fabray's lawyer."

With a leap in his chest, he grabbed the report and flipped through. "What did you find?"

"Well, I only had the pictures to go on, but I was taking a second look at the clothes she was wearing that night - "

"She was completely drenched from head to toe."

"Only on one side," she corrected. "And she hadn't started washing the skirt yet. Even if she had, a bludgeoning sprays you down completely, it wouldn't only spread a few inches out from the soaked area."

Miller's voice pricked at Graham's tongue. "What if she knew that? What if she changed clothes to make it fit her story?"

For the first time, one of the fingerprint analysts spoke up. "Then she'd have left tracks back the other way, wouldn't she?"

"Or those clothes would've been in the house somewhere," Hammond added.

"And I conferred with McCormack's analyst," Grady concluded. "She agreed with me. The remaining spray on that skirt is from her fall, which is consistent with her story."

Graham forcefully pressed away the triumph trying to creep up on his face. "All right, what do you two have for me?"

Sutter leapt up from her space at the desk, stacking a second file on top of the one in his hands. "We pieced together the partial."

"Josh Coleman, 24, domestic violence, public drunkenness, driving under the influence. No relation to drugs, though, not until now," Hammond recited, even as Graham read down the very infractions he listed, and - Josh Coleman was a McKinley graduate. Two years Fabray's junior; had he known her?

Graham's pulse jumped. "Thank you."

Miller stood the moment he returned to their adjoined desks, discarding the file she'd been pages into and plucking up her jacket. Without a word, they headed out to his waiting Ford and Miller plugged in the address on file to the GPS. Coleman, as it turned out, lived in a trailer park on the west side of town, situated between two double-wides in a camper straight out of the 60s. Concrete blocks served as stairs up to the metal door, and as they approached, the sounds of a football game in progress welcomed them. Graham propped a foot up on one step to knock over the roaring crowd celebrating a touchdown.

"Goddammit!"

Miller rolled her eyes up at him, but he didn't get a chance to linger as the door nearly clipped his nose off. Coleman replaced the entire frame where the door had once been, glaring down at them with hard, dark eyes. His mugshot had been slightly out of date, not accounting for the growth of his brown hair, straight up in spite of the large hand that ruffled through it. The expression was the same, however. The arrogant sneer Graham had become so accustomed to seeing in his many years in law enforcement almost overwhelmed Coleman's boyish good looks. His voice, however, was all anger and beer.

"What do you want?"

Graham drew his badge. "I'm Detective Graham; this is my partner, Detective Miller. We'd like you to answer a few questions for us."

Coleman's gaze flicked between them and the golden eagle. "I've been to my parole officer every month."

"This isn't concerning your current offenses," Miller supplied.

He stared hard at her. "What's it 'concerning'?"

Graham swayed into his line of vision. "Can you tell us where you were June 30th around, oh, 7 pm?"

Coleman squinted at him. "Fuck if I know, where were _you_?"

"Mr. Coleman - "

"Hold on," he grunted, and disappeared beyond the door frame again. When he returned, it was with an abused, tightly folded calendar in hand. "June 30th - the Reds were playing the Athletics 7 o'clock that night."

"Do you remember the score?"

Coleman waved the calendar at him. "Got it right here. 3-2, Reds."

Graham glanced back at Miller. She shrugged. "Mr. Coleman, you graduated from William McKinley, correct?"

"Yeah, class of '14. You wanna see my diploma?" he sneered.

"Were you acquainted with Quinn Fabray?"

Again, Coleman squinted at him. "I knew who she was, if that's what you mean. Nobody got 'acquainted with' those bunch of fags and dykes in the rainbow brigade, though," he drawled, grinning at Miller. She rolled her eyes, and Coleman focused his attention on Graham again. "Didn't she get arrested, or something?"

"Yes, for Russell Fabray's murder," he returned slowly.

He slumped in the door frame. "Shit. She plugged her dad? That's fucked up. Doesn't surprise me, though. Always was a crazy bitch."

"Were you acquainted with her father?" Miller pressed.

Coleman stared at her. "Nah."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I think I'd know if I knew somebody, officer," he snapped.

"Detective," she corrected.

His mouth set in an ugly line, but he said nothing more.

Graham drew breath. "Mr. Coleman, do you have any idea how your fingerprints could have gotten on a bag of marijuana that was found in Russell Fabray's house?"

The sneer disappeared. "What?"

"I'll ask again," Miller interjected. "Did you know Russell Fabray?"

Coleman glanced between them. "I already said no. I got nothing else to say."

With that, he nearly took Graham's nose off a second time as he whipped the door shut with a clang. Graham rejoined Miller on the worn grass that served as a lawn and piled back into the car.

"He did it," Miller concluded.

Graham smiled in spite of himself. "That's what you said about Ms. Fabray."

"There were no other options when we arrested her," she defended. "This kid has no alibi and he lied about knowing the victim."

"We can't prove that."

"Right. We can only prove that he had his hands on the same bag of marijuana that wound up in the dead guy's house."

"That doesn't mean he killed him," Graham reminded her. "It's possible he really didn't know him." She scoffed, but he continued, "That he touched that bag, but that it changed hands a few times before it got to Fabray."

"And I'm sure he was just using that bag for a healthy snack and someone reappropriated it!"

He snorted. "I don't think even the inventor of sarcasm meant for it to be used that heavily."

"Why are you so slow to condemn this guy?" she demanded, ignoring his good humor. "This is good for Fabray."

"Which is why I'm being careful. Only the right guy is going to help her." He blew out a sigh. "We'll bring him in tomorrow on charges of possession, see what happens then."

With that, the subject was closed, and Miller was silent until they arrived back at the station. But he didn't get a chance to pry into her bad mood once they arrived. It had only been a matter of time, and that time had come.

 _Fabray v Ohio_ was the case of the honorable district attorney's career. A high profile murder case that had caught the attention of national news stations. It was his chance to take down a brutal murderer in the public eye, to solidify his image as a crusader for justice, and to lock in every election for his post for years to come. News that that case was under threat of criticism and even worse, that there were holes, enough that he could lose it, triggered him into action.

"Sorry, Graham," was all Matthews said.

He now had only two weeks to pull a confession from Josh Coleman, or Quinn Fabray would take the stand with no alternate suspect - and perhaps no way to win.


	23. Heartbreak

**Heartbreak**

Today was it. Rachel's last visit to Quinn. At least, her last visit before the trial, only two weeks away. Less now, three days after Detective Graham's call. Rachel had known the moment she heard his voice that something wasn't right, though he'd been careful to lead with the good news. As cheered as she'd been to hear that the blood spatter matched Quinn's story and that Graham was looking at another possible suspect, she'd hurried him on, demanded to know: "What's the bad news?"

Two weeks before Quinn's future would be decided. Fourteen days before Rachel would either know ecstasy or heartbreak.

Graham had taken her silence for an instantaneous case for the latter, it seemed, as he'd reassured her, "There's a good chance she won't be convicted. The amount of evidence we have might be enough for a jury."

Rachel had had to fight hard against the jagged rock in her throat. 'Might.' "And what if it isn't?"

"A judge can overturn a jury's verdict. It's rare, but."

"How rare?"

A pause. "It's not something I would count on."

She wetted her lips. "How good a chance do you think she has?"

"It's...it's hard to say," he admitted. "We have two analysts who say the blood tells them there's no way she did it, but. There's still one who says she did. And Mrs. Hummel's story has changed in Ms. Fabray's favor, but that doesn't support her reliability as a witness. Aside from all that...she's still the only one we can prove was there."

Rachel had run straight to McCormack after thanking Graham profusely for the update, but he offered no buoy to her sinking hopes. If anything, he only served to terrify her to wits' end.

"I'm glad you're here," he'd barked the moment she barged into his office, pointing at the leather chair across from his mahogany desk. "I'm sure you understand I've had to put off any efforts to have Ms. Fabray moved back to Lima, and even if you don't, she'll be back soon enough to satisfy you anyway now that the trial is coming up."

Her open mouth, ready to assure him she fully understood and preferred that all of his efforts go into proving Quinn's innocence, fazed him not one bit today.

"Either way, we don't have time to discuss it anymore. We need to focus on your testimony," he'd continued, plucking up a pen. "Specifically, when you answer the DA's questions."

Her eyes widened. "The DA's questions?"

"We each have a chance to question each other's witnesses, both during and before the trial, which is what I'd like to speak to you about right now. Adler - "

" _Before_ the trial?"

McCormack's eyes landed on her for the first time since she'd entered the room, and she immediately wished she had kept her mouth shut. "Yes," he confirmed thinly. "I have interviewed all of Adler's witnesses and so-called 'experts' to better prepare for this day, and undoubtedly he will want to do the same. And while you can refuse, I don't recommend it. The district attorney is not someone you want to piss off. _But_ , I'm asking that you allow one of my associates to represent you during the interview."

Law and Order hadn't prepared Rachel for this. _She_ hadn't prepared herself for this. In all the time since she'd agreed, most eagerly, to be a character witness for Quinn, it hadn't occurred to her that she would be under the microscope of the district attorney herself. How could she have been so stupid?

"What if - what if he asks about when she - I mean, when - "

He wasn't even looking at her, occupied with his paperwork. "He will."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say," she puffed.

"Anything you think he might ask about, he will, unquestionably."

Anything. That meant he could ask about when Quinn was - different, about her past, their past, about all the things Rachel could tell him that would make Quinn look like a villain - and there was nothing Rachel could do about it. Because she would be under oath, because Quinn had forbade her from lying for her. Because if the DA asked, that would mean he already knew the real answer, that he would be catching her in a lie anyway.

McCormack finally stared at her again. "So we need to go over your dirty little secrets. I'll address the most important of them first."

A chill swept over Rachel's skin as he leaned forward, even as her mind fought to find an answer - what dirty little secrets?

"You're an actress, and I hope that you're a good one, because you _cannot_ , under any circumstances, let the district attorney see that you are in love with Ms. Fabray."

Her jaw unhinged, but no protest formed in her mind. There was no protest possible.

McCormack's lips quivered in the closest facsimile to his familiar smug smirk she'd seen in their entire meeting. "If he even suspects, your testimony is useless to me, because he will prove that you are biased in her favor, maybe even enough to lie under oath for her. So I need you to be one hundred percent certain when you answer me. Can you hide it?"

Rachel had never been able to hide her infatuations. Not once, in her entire life.

She'd nodded, and she'd been in a manic frenzy ever since.

Her fathers had been at an utter loss with her for the past three days, bringing her glass after glass of water until she felt as though all she was doing was running to the bathroom. She had tried visiting with Kitty and Artie, to give both her and her fathers a break, but they were even less prepared to deal with her mad mood, sticking in musicals and even trying at karaoke for a lack of anything better to try and distract her. At least Artie had suggested she get back to recording Gone with the Wind Part 2, and the task did occupy her from her pacing, jumping, and rubbing the circle of skin around her tiara tattoo raw all over again. For a time. Two hours, anyway.

But it was two hours Rachel wasn't thinking of how Quinn's trial was in two weeks. Of how Quinn might be trapped in that prison forever. Of how Rachel might have to visit Marysville every month for the rest of her life, because when she tried to face the idea of never seeing Quinn again, she could not breathe. Of how she'd let Quinn down, how she was doomed to let Quinn down the moment she sat down across from the district attorney or on the witness stand, because the entire courtroom would be able to see it the moment she laid eyes on Quinn, or even spoke about her, and even if her testimony wouldn't definitively decide Quinn's fate like McCormack said, Rachel would have failed Quinn. Why couldn't she have just said no?

"Because you're selfish, you're just selfish," she muttered, flexing her hands wildly at the beeping coffee pot.

Her father's hand interfering to cut off the noise nearly sent Rachel to the ceiling.

"Honey?" He peered at her; she trained her attention on the burning pancakes. "Kitten, don't take this the wrong way, but. You're giving me some serious cause for concern here."

Her Broadway grin didn't ease the concern in his expression one iota. "I'm fine! You just startled me, that's all. I'm all right."

With a pop of her toes, Rachel left a kiss on his cheek and pranced toward the foyer, only she hadn't even picked up her purse before his voice beckoned.

"Weren't you going to have some coffee?"

"I'll pick some up on my way to see Quinn."

"Okay, but, honey?"

She grinned back at him expectantly.

"You still have your pajama pants on."

Rachel cast a wary glance down at herself. Instantly, heat flooded her cheeks. "I knew that."

Dad only nodded, but the sympathetic little smile on his lips sent her fleeing into her room to change. Even after Rachel finally had herself put together properly, in a thick-striped shirt dress she'd worn multiple times on this four month trip, but thankfully never in front of Quinn, she decided that perhaps she was jittery enough without adding caffeine to her body and drove straight to the reformatory. It didn't look so out of place today, grey as it was, for the October sky cast the entire world in such a darkness, suiting Rachel's mood so that she was no longer unreasonably irritated by the weather. Even the prison staff adhered to her demeanor, treating her gently and courteously as they delivered her to Quinn.

But in spite of everything - the last few days, the coming weeks - Rachel could not begin to contain the smile that rose on her lips, no more than she could stop the palpable thud in her chest, or the twist of her stomach in the moments after. Quinn looked -

"You look - " Quinn stopped, tucking her lips.

Rachel's own lips relaxed into a chuckle as she took her place across from Quinn. "Go ahead, you can say it. I look terrible."

She shook her head minutely. "No. No, you look...tired."

"So do you."

Quinn's bruise had faded some, now in its yellow stages and no longer swelling her cheek so terribly that she was always squinting. But the dark circles always under her eyes could have passed for black and blues themselves, and her shoulders sloped as if the table was the only thing holding her up. She lowered her head to rub her eyes awake with her thumbs. Rachel wrung her hands in her lap.

"I haven't - haven't been getting much sleep," she snuffed.

"Me, either."

Quinn pinned her gaze. "I guess...I shouldn't ask then - "

Ask? Quinn wanted to ask her something. For help? Had Quinn not had Rachel's full attention, she would have held it like a treat over a dog's nose at that moment.

"No, ask me!"

A smile struggled to appear on Quinn's tired mouth. "I, um. I need you to go back to New York for me."

The excitement died. "Quinn, we've argued this point before, I'm not going until - "

"No, that's not why I need you to go," she murmured, killing the remainder of Rachel's protests. "All of my clothes are - are either at my loft or in a suitcase at my...mom's house. I can't bother her. But McCormack says it'll look better to a jury if I'm not…" She glanced furtively from orange uniform to Rachel.

"You need me to get nice clothes for the trial."

Quinn grimaced. "Will you?"

"Of course!" She grinned, but quickly bit down on it. "How will I get into your loft?"

"I'll tell Diane that you're coming; she can get a copy of the key from my landlord. I would ask her to get the clothes, but - "

"No, I want to do it."

Quinn stared across at her from beneath those long lashes, lips pressed the way they always did when she was trying not to smile. Rachel gulped down a breath, gathering herself.

"It's probably the first time you've let me help you since...high school."

"You made me those CDs, didn't you?" she pointed out, canting her head attractively.

"You told me not to do that, it doesn't count," she countered through a smile. "But they helped?"

Quinn only nodded, but it sent Rachel soaring.

Still, she emphasized, "I just wish I could do more. Detective Graham and Mr. McCormack keep telling me that all I can do is testify at your trial, and I will, but - "

"Why?"

The change in attitude was so swift Rachel had to do a double take to be sure, to read Quinn's pursed mouth and hardened eyes, her stern face.

"Why - why what?"

"Why did you agree to testify?"

"I - well - because, Quinn." She shook her head, mystified. "I want to help you. Mr. McCormack and I even have it worked out so that I can tell everyone before Mr. Adler tries to turn it around on you that you _were_ a...well, you _had_ your issues, but that that was a long time ago and you've come so far since then."

Quinn sighed, leaning herself backward, away - Rachel gnawed her lip. "You shouldn't have to talk about that."

"I'm okay with it," she soothed. Quinn only stared, jaw tensed. "I forgave you a long time ago, remember? I promise you I'm not going to say anything bad."

She puffed, dropping her head back. "And what is McCormack's strategy for if Adler starts trying to turn things around on you?"

Words refused to emerge, and Quinn dropped her elbows back to the table.

"What if he brings up That's So Rachel? Or - "

"Is this how you've been fighting Mr. McCormack, too?"

That blonde eyebrow arched. "What?"

Rachel folded her arms. "Mr. McCormack told me that you'd been uncooperative with him. That you refused to let him question Mrs. Hummel."

"No, I refused to let him attack her," she interjected sharply. "He wanted to make her sound crazy, to throw Finn's death in her face."

Oh. Rachel breathed in, dropping her hands back to her lap.

"I disrespected him enough when he was alive," Quinn muttered, working her jaw.

Carefully, she probed, "Is that...is that why you aren't fighting to get out of here? Because you feel guilty? For Finn and me and... Do you think you...belong here?"

"No," she scoffed. "But however much I want out, I can't let him attack and hurt people on my behalf. And I can't let you get hurt."

Rachel gnawed her lip. Damn the rules. Daringly, she stretched her arms across the forbidden steel and grasped Quinn's fingers tightly.

"You have no idea how proud I am of you," she admitted through a smile. "But right now, the _only_ thing that matters is getting you out of here."

Quinn's throat flexed. "You matter, too. Just tell McCormack that you don't want to do it."

Rachel sighed, flattening her palms to the table. "But I do want to."

"Why? I know you want to help me - but you have. Can't it be enough? If you get up there, he-he could say or ask anything, he could do to you what McCormack wanted to do to Finn's mom and he probably will. He'll want to prove that you are lying, that you don't know what you're talking about."

"If it helps you get out of here, I don't care, Quinn."

She seemed not to have heard. "He could bring up that you - that you dated a prostitute, that you sent someone to a crack house, that - he could bring up Finn or that show, and that is going to really hurt you, so why risk it? Why even do it to yourself?"

"Because," she puffed, bouncing her knee.

"Why?"

"Because - because I love you!"

Quinn's hazel eyes, pinning her so intently into place, widened the slightest margin. If Rachel hadn't been staring so closely at them, even through blurry eyes, she wouldn't have noticed. She retreated her hands back across the space to a neutral zone, pretending to pick at the dirt under her nails. Quinn hardly moved. Rachel's knee popped, tapping the floor with her heel. The noise, repetitive and faint though it was, was a great relief to her. Quinn only stared.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Rachel burst.

Her voice was hardly louder than the silence. "What do you want me to say?"

She chuckled - if she hadn't laughed, she would've burst into tears. "What do you think? But I'd settle for changing the subject, or...or 'I know.' Because I know that you know. You must."

Quinn tapped her thumbs together. "We can't work, Rachel. I'm not what you need."

Rachel's mouth hung for a moment. She did know. It wasn't a surprise, obviously, but still Rachel could hardly believe she was not only acknowledging it, but responding to the possibility. The possibility of them together. And dashing it away all at the same time.

"Isn't that for me to decide?" she tried.

"And unless things have changed...drastically since I've been in here, you're engaged."

She dropped her head. "Yes, that's still true."

"And he can give you what you need."

"What is it that you think I need so much?" she breathed, peering up at Quinn's closed face.

She glanced around them. "Someone who isn't in prison, for starters."

Rachel sighed. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking. I could be here - I could be here the rest of my life," she said slowly. "You don't need that kind of complication in the rest of yours. You have a career and a future. I refuse to be the reason that you would lose either of them."

"And what if you get out of here?" she pressed, setting aside the idea of Quinn locked up away from her for the time being - after all, she wouldn't have much choice in the matter. Rachel would visit her anyway. "Why couldn't we work then?"

Quinn paused. "Jesse - "

"And leave him out of it. I know I'm engaged, I know that I shouldn't love you, but I do."

"The truth is, if I wasn't in here, you wouldn't."

"So you think the minute you're free, I won't love you anymore?" she concluded, eyebrows raised. "Quinn, just because this made me realize how much you mean to me, it doesn't mean it's the _reason_ I love you. If reason had anything to do with it, it wouldn't be love. So tell me why, other than my marital status and your living situation and why I love you, why wouldn't we work?" She bit her lip.

Quinn dragged in a breath. But nothing was forthcoming from those perfect, pursed lips. She just looked at Rachel with hypnotizing almond eyes, softer than before, but no more telling than they had been the moment Rachel brought up her testimony. She could read nothing.

"Is it because...you don't feel the same way about me?" she pried, dropping her hands to her lap. "Because if you don't, then...then just say so. I won't be surprised. I've always known you don't find me attractive and, while that's not all important, it is a factor in developing romantic love for someone. And while we've come very far in our friendship and I trust that you no longer find me completely unappealing as a person, I'm still a lot to take. I've even been sending my fathers around the bend lately, and they've been dealing with my crazy my entire life, so how could I expect anyone else to be able to handle it? Except for Jesse, of course." She paused, realizing. "Is that what you meant? That he can deal with me, but you can't?" She pulled her lip. "You were just trying to be nice… I'm sorry."

"Please don't cry."

Quinn's voice was hoarse; rather, more husky than usual, as if she herself was on the verge of tears. Rachel couldn't exactly tell through her own, though she wiped at them furiously the moment Quinn brought them to her attention.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know I'm not being fair. You're already dealing with so much. But you did ask," she defended through a sniffle.

Quinn nodded. "I did. Rachel, I - "

"Time's up."

Rachel stood. "I'll, I'll go tomorrow, for your clothes, and. I'll have Mr. McCormack get them to you."

Quinn's chain jerked. "Rachel."

She paused next to the guard waiting in the doorway, swallowing down another salty attack.

"Please take care of yourself," she half-whispered.

Rachel shook her head, once. "Don't you dare try to say goodbye to me, Quinn."

If she wasn't mistaken, Quinn's mouth curved in a half-smile. "Never can."


	24. Hopelessly

**Hopelessly**

She'd been warned. By Artie, by herself. Now that she thought back on their conversation, she realized Mercedes had been gently hinting, too. Even Quinn herself had been so carefully pushing her away. As usual, Rachel couldn't hear the whisper. Not until her heart had been shattered by the scream. She could have blamed it on Quinn as she had inside, for asking over and over, cornering her - but Rachel couldn't be dishonest with herself. It wouldn't have mattered. She wanted to say it.

It was written into the melodies which made up who she was, not only to always belt out the feelings inside, but to hold onto hope, beyond all reason or doubt. Taking that into consideration, it was probably better that Rachel knew Quinn's true feelings now, rather than several humiliations down the line. But she wasn't ready to be grateful.

In the safety of the car, her thumb had already half-swiped Kurt's number before she remembered. She hadn't spoken to him in months, despite his calls and attempts to catch her attention, though never with remorse of any kind. She hung up.

Mercedes' number rang on end.

' _You've reached Mercedes Jones, I'm busy being fabulous right now, but if you leave your name and the best number to reach you at, I'll give you a call back._ '

Rachel hung up, tossed her phone to the passenger seat, and gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. The rows of cars lining the grey parking lot were blurry in her vision, the shining reflections off the sun sharpening into knives of light to her eyes. She was crying all over again, though it pained her. Her chest was crushed in a vice. The last time Rachel had choked this way, Carmen Tibideaux had been walking out of the auditorium without a single glance back.

Like an avenging angel, a masked superhero, Quinn had been the one to pry the hands from her throat then, but the tattooed reminder on Rachel's wrist was no substitute for the real moment. It could not recapture awe or joy; it could not free her from the abuse of despair. It could not make her special. Because it was no longer enough that Quinn cared, then or now. There was something wrong with Rachel's melodies, some discordant note that only Jesse could listen to without covering his ears. There was something wrong with her, if Quinn could not love her.

Even as she thought it, Rachel knew it was vain, self-indulgent, ridiculous, but grief could not be convinced of reality. It could only be expressed, and there was only one safe place where Rachel could cut herself open in such a way. A mission, a destination, steadied her, so that with a few wipes of her eyes she could find the road ahead of her without fog.

It didn't matter where in the world she was, the moment Rachel stepped into an auditorium, she was home. An empty or full house, one hundred seats or two thousand, Lima or New York City. It didn't matter, so long as she had a stage and a spotlight, and the moment she was wrapped in the embrace of the April Rhodes Civic Pavilion, a song was ready in her mind, her heart, her tongue.

" _Guess mine is not the first heart broken_  
 _My eyes are not the first to cry_  
 _I'm not the first to know_  
 _There's just no getting over you_ "

It was almost as if she had never left, never graduated, the way her mind filled in all the details that were missing. The spotlight warming her entire body. The Aurora Borealis light show projected on the screen behind her. Tina and Brittany backing her up on harmony. The jazz band to the left, with Puck in lead on acoustic, strumming along. Mr. Schuester and the rest of the club strewed among the empty seats, watching. Kurt with tears in his eyes, Santana filing her nails.

And most importantly, Quinn. But that was how Rachel knew the images were an invention, a dream. Because Quinn's blonde locks were clipped short to cup her jaw, where they had grown long behind bars. Because she wasn't in an orange jumpsuit, but in a fine pair of boots, a long skirt, a blouse, and a scarf to provide that dab of perfection to an already gorgeous ensemble. Because her face was unbruised. Because Quinn stared back at Rachel from her lone spot in the seats below, aside from the rest of them, with that expression. The look of someone who had just seen a unicorn.

" _But now_  
 _There's nowhere to hide_  
 _Since you pushed my love aside_  
 _I'm out of my head_ "

But it wasn't all a fantasy. The applause was real, if solitary, from two hands only, and as Rachel straightened herself from the piano bench, the illusory flicker of hope died. Mr. Schuester trotted up the stage steps in his blue sweater vest and jeans and ever-boyish grin. He had worn a similar outfit the last time she had seen him, back in April. It had been a Skype call, so perhaps it didn't count in quite the same way, but he had told her that day about his plans to take Emma, Danny Finn, April Jean, Michael, Matthew, and the one on the way on a cruise for the summer. That day, Rachel had asked him permission to use McKinley's facilities for her wedding to Jesse. A lifetime ago.

"If that's what they taught you at NYADA, I'm glad you went back. That was terrific, Rachel."

The praise would once have sent her replete with pride. His presence after so long should have sent her running for a hug and some counsel.

"How was the Caribbean?"

"I don't think that's what either one of us wants to talk about." He hiked up his pant legs and dropped next to her.

"If Miss Pillsbury had a nervous breakdown over the myriad of potential diseases caused by exposure to foreign germs, then all I have to say is that you were warned."

"She did great," he dismissed, not without a smile, "But you don't seem to be doing so well."

She swiped at her cheeks, stiffening as tear tracks dried. "I'm fine. It's just performance tears; you know how I get."

"You know, I wouldn't blame you if they weren't. I'm scared for her, too."

The reminder was unhelpful to Rachel's attempts to regain her composure. She nodded nonetheless.

He was peering at her. "Artie told me you've been visiting her pretty regularly. How's she holding up?"

It hadn't occurred to Rachel to be angry with Mr. Schuester, back in July when Kurt, Blaine, Santana, Brittany, Tina, Mike, Sugar, and all the rest betrayed Quinn. After all, he hadn't been around at the time of her arrest, hadn't partaken in the jokes and ridicule. But now he was back, and if he had to ask Rachel how Quinn was doing -

She frowned at him. "Why don't you go see her and find out for yourself?"

He sighed, throwing up a hand in defeat. "I've tried. When we got back in August, I called and set up a visitation. They called back and said she denied my request."

"She can do that?"

Somehow, the knowledge changed the entire scope of Rachel's visits with Quinn. Who else had tried to visit Quinn, only to come up empty? Why had Rachel slipped through the cracks - even after Quinn must've realized the changing tone of Rachel's feelings?

"She denied Emma, too. I even tried again last month, to see if maybe she changed her mind, but." He blew out a long breath; she breathed with him. "You know, I don't blame her. Sue wasn't always right - "

Rachel's squawk brought a brief smile to his face.

"But she did have a point when she said I...neglected some of you guys. I never really reached Quinn. Maybe because she was so different than the rest of you."

"How do you mean?"

"Almost every single one of you was a larger than life performer with your heart on your sleeve. She never was. You know, if you guys were the thunder, she was the lightning. I never quite knew if what I saw was even real."

Rachel couldn't help but smile. She knew the feeling. "Finn used to say that the problem with Quinn is that you never quite knew where you stood with her."

"At least she's made it clear where I stand now," he agreed, sighing.

"It's not necessarily what you think. Remember, she's the lightning."

He smiled. "What do you think it is then?"

"How should I know?" she chuckled.

"Well, you're the one she trusts."

That was why. Why Quinn tried to get Rachel on her side back in senior year, why she listened to Rachel's warnings and advice and turned herself around, why she spoke to Santana differently than she did to Rachel, why she rejected visits from people she'd known just as long, but let Rachel through the gates. She trusted Rachel. It answered so many questions and yet, begged an entire set of new ones. How had Rachel gained that trust? And when? And why, if she had such faith, didn't she have her love?

#

Mr. Schuester insisted that Rachel stay the rest of the day, purportedly to share her wealth of experience and talent with the young glee clubs, but really because he was still concerned about her. Fortunately, he knew well enough not to press into her despairing mood, but to allow her to express it through song, over and over again throughout the day, so that by the end of it all, she was exhausted of tears. And plain exhausted. Though she took care to soothe her throat after a long day with the balm of chamomile tea with lemon and honey, she dropped into bed and a fitful sleep the moment she'd drained her cup.

After a couple hours of tossing and turning, she was saved from all-too-clear images of Quinn in a Cheerios uniform and a coy smile with Finn, Puck, Sam - all three - whispering at her ears, her neck, by the bell on her phone. Once she'd wriggled herself into a halfway up position and blinked away the sudden glare of her bedside lamp, she found Mercedes waiting on her FaceTime.

"Ooh, you don't look so hot, hot mama. Did I wake you?"

"It's okay," she yawned. "I was dreaming about high school."

"You're welcome, then," she laughed. "So what's up?"

It took Rachel a moment to remember her desperate call to Mercedes' phone, the lack of answer, the lack of solace.

"Oh. I, um." She rubbed her eyes to clear the image of Mercedes staring expectantly at her. There was little point in trying to cover. "I told Quinn how I feel."

Mercedes' jaw visibly dropped a fraction. "You are braver than I thought."

"You mean dumber." Rachel tried to smile, but her eyes stung, and she wondered if Mercedes could see their wetness through the webcam. "She doesn't love me."

"I'm sorry, honey," she cooed, and in spite of everything, the gentle sweetness of her voice was comforting.

"It's okay. It's pretty much what I was expecting," she sniffed. "Anyway, I'm sorry I called, I just needed a friend."

"I could tell. Kurt said you called him, too."

Rachel stiffened. "You spoke to Kurt?"

"Don't you glare at me. Look, Kurt says a lot of hurtful things sometimes. That's who he is, impulsive and dramatic. That's who _we_ are."

"He called her a _murderer_ ," she puffed.

"He's starting to change his mind."

"Sure, after the news reports cast doubt."

Mercedes smiled. "Honey, you can't expect everyone to have the same faith in Quinn as we do. They don't know her like we do. She never trusted them like she does us."

Trust. Rachel wet her lips. "I get why she trusts you. I mean, you offered your home to her when she was in a world of constant ridicule and judgment. But why me?"

"That's something only you and Quinn can answer."

#

The train ride to New York, driving up to Cleveland to catch the Lake Shore train on its way out, was several hours longer than the simple two hour plane ride Rachel might have managed had she thought to book a flight directly after her emotional breakdown. But in the end, she decided, it was better this way. She would have at least eight hours to figure out what on earth she was going to say to her fiance when she arrived at their shared apartment. The apartment, the life, she hadn't set foot in since June.

Rachel and Jesse had been nothing but brutally honest with each other since he returned from UCLA her junior year of high school. Or at least since they'd gotten back together upon her own return to New York. They had agreed it was the only way they would make it through, and so the first time they attempted intimacy, Rachel admitted to him that she couldn't stop thinking about Finn, and they waited a few more months.

But this was different. This wasn't guilt or lingering feelings for the man who had gone too soon. This was current and very real feelings she had confessed to the woman who was always there for her, and who did not love her back. The situation left her with too many questions and not enough answers, as everything involving Quinn seemed to do.

Should she admit her betrayal? Because if she wanted to stay with him, it would only hurt him unnecessarily, wouldn't it? But didn't he deserve the opportunity to decide whether he still wanted her after all this? Did she still want him, or was it only because Quinn didn't want her? He was, after all, the man Mr. Schuester had promised would come into her life, the man who loved her for everything that she was, including the parts of herself that even she didn't like. The man she had a life with, before all this. The only one who could love her.

And Rachel didn't love him anymore. Not in the same way. What was wrong with her?

The question only became more pronounced in her mind the moment she unlocked her apartment door for the first time in four months. At her feet was a trail of rose petals in every color, white, red, pink, yellow, leading her eyes across the entryway to their low-lit living room, where their Edelweiss player piano tapped out Someone to Watch Over Me and there he was. Dressed fine in a Hugo Boss casual suit, pouring a second glass of red wine, and grinning at her.

"Welcome home, my sun and stars."

She dropped her bags and ran to him. He barely had time to set the glasses down on the piano top before she was clinging to his neck, but as soon as his hands were free, he wrapped her tight in his love and squeezed until she could no longer blink back the tears.

"Mmm, I've missed you," Jesse groaned in her ear.

She bit on her lip. "I only texted you I was coming back this morning, how did you - "

He drew back and grinned at her. "It was all I could manage on such short notice. Now." He brought a glass to her hand, then touched his own to it with a quiet 'clink.' "Let's celebrate my beautiful fiancee coming home where she belongs." His lips pressed hers and then her neck, eager with kisses.

"Jesse - you know I'm not staying," she protested, raising a hand to his chest, between them.

"Oh, I know. You plan to return for the trial, and I'm in full support of that," he announced. "Which is why I've decided to come back with you, until it's over."

It was all so much at once, but that was Jesse. Always he was overwhelming her in one way or another, and right now it was with his love and support. The welcome home reminding her of how much he loved her, the embrace and kisses making her feel sexy and wanted, the offer to come back to Lima with her to prop her up with his strength in a time when she would need it most. Rachel needed all of that now more than ever.

But the moment he offered to come back, she was hit with how unfair she was being. Selfishly basking in his love when it wasn't his she wanted.

She stepped away, setting the wine on the piano. "I _meant_ that I'm not staying here. I made plans to meet Diane, I'm just stopping to drop off my suitcases."

"Well, then I'll send your clothes out to the dry cleaners and pack fresh bags for us while you're gone."

He smiled broadly at her.

With a breath, Rachel started back toward the door. "I have to go."

As a result of her mad dash away from guilt, she was fifteen minutes early to the meeting place outside Quinn's building, but Diane proved to be more than punctual. She was ten minutes early.

"Have you been waiting long?" she asked briskly, almost the moment she stepped out of her limo.

Rachel shook her head, but didn't bother to elaborate. Diane was hardly paying her any mind, already digging in the pockets of her pantsuit. But she didn't hand over the silver key she produced right away, eyeing Rachel sharply.

"I had never met you before the day Quinn was arrested and now she's giving you a key to her loft."

Her brow knit. "Quinn and I have known each other for years. She trusts me. Now, if you would kindly hand it over?"

Diane's nose wrinkled in indecision, or disgust, Rachel wasn't sure, but after another moment sizing her up, the lawyer finally plopped the key into her open palm.

"Thank you."

"This had better not come back to haunt me," she snipped, and with that, went back to her limo.

Rachel couldn't contain a smile. In some small way, it was satisfying to see one of the people in Quinn's everyday life jealous, or at least rankled, by Rachel, rather than the other way around. She shook her mind of it and braced herself for entry into Quinn's world.

The place was grander than Rachel remembered from her last admittance inside, last Thanksgiving. Quinn had hosted the day, welcoming Kurt, Blaine, Santana, Brittany, Jesse, Rachel, and the members of their families who could make it out to a magnificent turkey dinner at a table that stretched near the length of the place. That table was gone now, as were the decorations, candles, and gourds. Remaining was the lifeless remains of Quinn's home, untouched for the past four months. It was, in a word, dusty.

Rachel had fully intended to get in and out as quickly as possible with three or four dresses in garment bags. That was certainly what Quinn would want, as private as she was. Only, Rachel couldn't imagine Quinn being set free only to come home to this - museum.

With a brief search, she found cleaning supplies in the bathroom and in a small storage closet with an energy efficient washer dryer set inside, and she set to work. The bedding went in the wash first with regrettably old, but still functional detergent, and while that was spinning, she tended to the surfaces with cleaning wipes and dusters until the glass dining table, the stainless steel counters and island, the kitchen appliances, the coffee table, the treadmill all shone with the usual care Quinn provided her belongings. She raided the refrigerator and cupboards after switching batches to the dryer, dumping out all the expired, rotted, sour foods, and after a couple of trips down to the dumpster, she started on polishing the hardwood floors and vacuuming all the furniture and carpeting.

By the time Rachel fit the bedding back over Quinn's mattress and rehung the curtains, freshly white from the washer, it was dark and she had texted Jesse that he should get some sleep before the flight he'd booked for them early in the morning. There would be no talking him out of it. No escape from the guilt he was unknowingly inflicting upon her. No way to stop him from seeing how utterly devastated she would be if Quinn was convicted, or how ecstatic if she was acquitted.

But for the time being, Rachel could avoid it, lingering in Quinn's place, tidying. She had set Quinn's laptop aside earlier to clean her nightstand off, but now lifted it back into place, noticing only now - her wedding invitation was sitting on top.

'The honor of your presence is requested at the marriage of

Jesse St. James and Rachel Berry

On Monday, July 1st, 2019  
At 4 PM

William McKinley High School  
Lima, OH'

Quinn had never actually sent in her RSVP, and there it sat, underneath all that fancy cursive.

'Kindly respond by June 1st

Accepts with pleasure

Declines with regrets'

The latter box was checked.

Now Rachel was beyond curious, beyond puzzled - why? What had changed Quinn's mind? The last thing that caught her eye was the flash drive, sitting innocuously next to her heel where she had accidentally knocked it to the floor. Impulsively, she opened the laptop, turned it on, plugged in the USB. Four months of updates nearly refused her, but she battled through, clicking later, later, later until the flash drive was open and Rachel could see the name Quinn had given it: SENIOR YEAR 2011-2012.

As expected, everything was neatly compiled into folders, two of them, College and High School. Rachel tried College first, split into Applications and Scholarships. She backed out, tried High School. There were several more folders here. Aside from every class she was taking, Cheerios, Glee, and one suspiciously marked NYADA ranked a folder. She went for NYADA first. It only contained one file, a video. Her fingers couldn't hit play fast enough.

And there was Quinn, smiling at the camera, blonde locks restrained by a navy headband.

"Hi, I'm Quinn Fabray. I'm a student at William McKinley, the school you just visited to audition two incredibly talented graduates, neither of which, you'll notice, were me. As a matter of fact, I have no intention of applying to NYADA, but before you stop watching, hear me out. You made a tragic mistake last week in not giving Rachel Berry another chance. I could go on, ad nauseum, about her virtues, her ambition, her work ethic, and most of all, her gift, but I've always believed in the power of showing, not telling. So enjoy."

It was Rachel. For the next four minutes, clips of her singing solo, clips of her singing, dancing, laughing with the group, clips of her practicing, clips of her coaching. Most of them were filmed during that senior year, just before Christmas and beyond, but she recognized one or two from years before. In one, she watched herself stop Brad in the middle of a song to start over because she'd flubbed a single note, and heard Quinn quietly laughing behind the camera. The last clip was the longest, from a bootleg copy of their first Secitonals performance, when Rachel had successfully taken the stage and the win with Don't Rain On My Parade.

Then Quinn was back in front of her.

"Rachel will be just fine without your school. One way or another, she's _going_ to be Broadway's star. But here's the thing: Harry Potter was rejected by twelve different publishers before Bloomsbury signed off on it. Follow Bloomsbury's lead. You won't regret it."

The screen blackened. Rachel tasted salt on her lips. One thought spun round and round in her head, read only a few days ago while she was recording the second part of Gone With the Wind.

'Why, no man did such things without loving a woman to distraction!'

"She loved me."

 _My head is saying,_  
 _'Fool, forget him'_  
 _My heart is saying,_  
 _'Don't let go_  
 _Hold on to the end'_  
 _And that's what I intend to do_

 _I'm hopelessly devoted to you_


	25. Brink

**Brink**

Jesse was sound asleep by the time Rachel slipped beneath the covers next to him, near one in the morning according to her iPhone. After all she had done and seen tonight, after all she had done and said over the past few months, it felt like sliding under sheepskin. Jesse would wake up completely unaware of the wolf beside him. But she had little other choice tonight.

Twenty minutes ago, she had nearly dozed off in Quinn's bed, but a passing siren saved her from that grave mistake and there was only one place left to her to go. Not that there was anywhere she could go now to escape the guilt, hounding her down wherever she ran, because now she had betrayed not only Jesse's heart, but Quinn's trust.

How stupid Rachel had been in her frenzy, peeking in the first place, and then, at the faintest glimmer of gold, digging like a madwoman for more until the entire contents of the flash drive had been exhausted. She had thoroughly and deliberately invaded Quinn's privacy. And the worst of it was, she could not bring herself to be entirely sorry for it.

Quinn had loved her once. Rachel had not been able to gather an exact time frame aside from some point in their senior year, but she was convinced of it nonetheless. The NYADA video proved it well enough, but in her searching, Rachel had also discovered a private performance that she was quite certain was meant for her, though the only witness had apparently been Joe, wielding a shaky camera and claiming they were filming, 'for posterity, Quinn Fabray sang her actual feelings.' The song of choice was The Reason.

So there was no doubt, but questions, as ever, remained. Most of all, when and why, oh, why had Quinn stopped loving her? What happened between the NYADA video and yesterday - one am, two days ago - in the prison's private visitation room that caused Quinn to lose interest in her? At least, romantic interest. Had it simply been time? Or had Rachel done something to cause this?

She tried to think back, to rake her mind over the years following, college and Brody and Funny Girl and That's So Rachel and the new New Directions and college again and Jesse. She found nothing, but this and so much more she needed to know, only asking Quinn would mean admitting to what she had done, and then she would undoubtedly lose Quinn forever.

Then again, she faced losing Quinn one way or another in nine days' time.

Rachel twisted the blankets tighter about herself, up to her chin. In all honesty, Rachel remembered very little of the days that followed Quinn's accident, due in part to her inability to think about those weeks without losing her mind. But also due to the fact that life without Quinn had been no life at all. Everywhere Rachel had gone, she was reminded of what was missing. The empty chair in the choir room, at the Lima Bean, in the auditorium where a witty, cool blonde should have been became an albatross to her. She could no longer frequent the bathroom at school. The unopened locker stared at her from down the hall.

So she'd spent the time listlessly trailing Finn, Kurt, or one of the others, only half-minding whatever conversation they provided. And even then, it was really only to imagine what deadpan, dead-on remark Quinn would reply with, because nothing else provided any feeling. Kurt's excited chatter about NYADA and his audition song, Finn's conversation about wedding venues, every glee club meeting dedicated to Nationals - everything was tasteless, colorless, odorless. As if she was on the wrong side of the rainbow.

And now…

Jesse's stirring, hours later, freed Rachel from the confines of the bed, if not her mind, but the moment she passed to her suitcase sitting by the dresser, her hope for distraction died. Jesse had already packed - exactly twelve dresses and outfits for her. Their plane tickets for 10 am were already printed out and waiting underneath Jesse's watch. She wouldn't dare shower with him fussing in his covers. He might wake and try to join her. All that was left for her to do was dress for the day.

While she was in the midst of carefully styling her hair over a black turtleneck, Jesse padded in behind her, pressed his face against her cheek and an arm about her waist.

"Mm, morning, sweet. What time did you get in last night, I didn't hear you."

"It was late…"

His morning fuzz scraped against her jaw. It was all wrong. The feeling of him, his strong chest bracing her spine and his lips against her, it didn't repulse her. There was no coil in her stomach due to distaste. But still she recoiled from him, his touch, the room. She busied her hands with the proper shutdown of the curling iron while he chuckled at her, picked up his toothbrush.

"Right, morning breath, sorry." Around foam, he went on, "I thought you were just picking up a couple of dresses for her."

"Well, I decided to do some cleaning while I was there. Things were a bit rundown."

He spat. "I bet."

While his mouth was filled with Listerine, Rachel fled to the kitchen. Breakfast, she thought, might keep his mouth and his hands busy for a time, but she had no such luck. He came strolling from the bedroom in a grin, jeans, and lint-free beater and button-down combination, spreading his arms like a champ.

"There we go. Teeth brushed and clean-shaven. Told you I'd always be fastidiously groomed." If possible, his grin was even cheekier. "What smells so delicious?"

Rachel indicated a chair across the breakfast bar. "Eat and you will see."

Without argument, he flapped a napkin over his lap and dug in. "Mm, we'll have to save seconds for when we get back if we want to make it to the airport on time."

"Are you sure you want to go?" she tried, leaping on the chance he offered. "I mean, I can't imagine it'll be very interesting for you."

"Of course I do. I told you, I want to support you."

"What about your production?"

"They'll have to try to scrape through without me for the week. I have - almost every confidence they'll pull it off."

Rachel gnawed at her lip. "Well, I may not be around much. At least not today. I have to get the dresses to Mr. McCormack and then I'd like to stop by the police station and check in with Detective Graham."

"Don't worry about me. I'm coming for you, and I mean that. You need me, I'm there for you."

And that was that. There was no talking Jesse out of a romantic gesture once he had it in his head to do so. Of course, there was no talking Jesse out of much of anything once he had it in his head, and so Rachel bowed to him. Whether because of exhaustion or guilt or crippling fear, she had no energy to fight his whims for the day, to try to convince him not to be so generous with her. So he carried her suitcase and Quinn's garment bags out to the taxi, he opened her doors and paid the fares, he checked and collected their bags, he drove the rental car the 67 miles from Dayton to Lima, and Rachel was relieved to be going to see McCormack, however short that particular visit might be.

In fact, it was only two minutes, in and out. He hung the garment bags in his coat closet and thanked her, asked if she'd heard from the district attorney's office yet. Then she was gone and on her way to the police station, which, thankfully, ate up a good chunk of time while she waited for Graham to return from - well, they wouldn't give her much more information than that. Neither did he, when he did march in, Miller trailing as always.

"Ms. Berry, I wasn't expecting you. Come with me, please."

His voice was as dull as his eyes. Rachel's stomach twisted its thousandth knot. But she followed him into an empty interrogation room. He sank into the chair with dead weight.

"We have - nothing," he admitted at last, palms up.

"No-nothing? What do you mean, nothing? What happened with the other suspect?"

"We brought him in, but we didn't have anything to hold him on. And the only thing tying him to Russell Fabray is his partial print on one of the bags of marijuana we found."

Rachel's pulse was beginning to throb in her ears. "Well, shouldn't that have been enough? Enough to-to at least keep him until you could get him to confess?"

Graham shook his head. "He was refusing to talk in the first place, and then he lawyered up. We didn't have a choice."

No other suspect. No other possibilities. No 'compelling alternate theory,' as McCormack put it.

No.

"Then that's it? What about-what about the other drug dealers or-or your theory about the loan sharks?" she grasped, desperate.

A long sigh drained the height of his shoulders. "A loan shark wouldn't use a cheerleading trophy. They'd use a bat or brass knuckles or something along those lines."

"Unless they wanted him dead!"

"Dead people don't pay, Ms. Berry, and if they were planning on collecting from his relatives, they'd have made contact already."

"Well, there has to be _something_!"

Graham stared up at her, surprise lifting his eyebrows. "There isn't," he said, gently. "I'm sorry. But even if there was, we've run out of time."

"You've got _nine days_ \- "

"Eight, give or take a few hours."

" _So what?!_ That's plenty of time, you can't just give up, you have to keep trying!"

The fury, futile as it was, cracked Rachel's spirit alive until she was sweating, puffing, fuming, raging down at him, the immovable object who would not stand in the way of the unstoppable force stampeding down on Quinn, the man who had started all this that night when he arrested Quinn.

"This is _your fault_! You have to _fix it, goddammit!_ "

"Ms. Berry - Rachel, calm down," he soothed, raising his hands in peace. "I've done everything I can for her. There are no other leads. Whoever did this...their trail is cold."

No. Rachel's carefully styled hair was tossed wildly. Her eyes burned.

"What if you didn't find all the marijuana?"

"We searched high and low. We found all of it," he countered.

"Well, what if - what about all the cell phone records?"

"We've been through every number. Most of them are dummies. The others have been contacted and ruled out."

His calm voice spiked her dying ire.

"Well, then what about his computer?! I mean, God, everyone has _something_ shameful in their browser history!"

He was shaking his head to her flailing hands. "We pulled the hard drive when we searched the house. His computer is the cleanest piece of technology he had."

"Well, then maybe he hid it on a flash drive," she sniped, then laughed, tearfully. "People hide the craziest things there."

With a step, she was almost out the door, but his hand spun her elbow.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"I can't take this anymore."

The concern in Graham's eyes heightened. "What are you going to do?"

Rachel snuffed, straightened. "Relax, Detective. I'm not going to go on a bear hunt or anything, I wouldn't even know where to start."

"I don't know if I feel comfortable letting you leave when you're this upset."

"If the love of your life was going to be incarcerated and locked away from you forever, wouldn't you be?"

Graham struggled for words, mouth opening and closing, and Rachel bolted. For the second time in three days, she was left with no option but to sob openly in the silence of her father's car.

#

He hadn't changed. Not one bit. When he came in, he was smirking, puffing his chest out. He stopped to politely thank Laura for her informative rundown on the rules and the escort to the private visitor's room. She smiled, charmed. Quinn was not.

Jesse St. James slung himself over the metal chair across from her. He grinned.

"You're looking well, Quinn. Perhaps a tad more ghost than Grace Kelly, but that's to be expected in your current digs," he drawled, folding his hands together on the table.

His request for visitation had come the week before, providing Quinn, at least for a time, something to occupy herself with other than the dread and terror that ate away another pound from her body. Something to puzzle over aside from who in the world she or her father, or both, had enraged so much that they killed him and let her take the fall. Why on earth would Jesse St. James want to see her?

It was the curiosity. The reason she allowed the visit, the reason he was sitting smug and proud as a peacock across from her in his Marc Jacobs jeans and Dolce & Gabbana tops, his sleek hair coiffed to represent the latest style to perfection. His pearly white teeth flashing at her.

But he wasn't showing his cards just yet.

She narrowed in. "What do you want?"

He leaned toward her, blue eyes twinkling. "You know, if you're acquitted, you're really going to have to relearn your manners if you expect to mingle in civilized society again."

Quinn's eyes went heavenward.

He dropped back, enjoying for a moment. "So, I'm sure you know by now, my fiancee thinks she's in love with you."

There it was. Quinn's eyebrow quirked.

Jesse grinned. "It's ludicrous, of course, brought on by my leaving and her natural attraction to drama. She may drag it on a bit after the show's over, but in the end, she'll come back where she belongs, with me."

"Thank you, for telling me that," she snarked. "I sure hope it was worth the trip."

"I'm glad to see you don't have any delusions about this whole thing," he returned at length.

"Is that all then?"

Jesse studied her. "Honestly? Yes. I came here to see what kind of competition I had. I expected a fight even if you didn't want her. You strike me as the contrary type. But I guess the lion must have roared its last ages ago, mm? All that's left is a grouchy, domesticated housecat."

He smirked.

Something quivered within Quinn. She adjusted on her seat.

"You make it sound as if you _want_ competition."

"Competition may be the wrong word," he went on, hitting his stride again. "More like, I wanted to see what kind of complications were in store. Put a stop to them before they started."

Quinn puffed. Another quiver. "Right. That's why you hauled yourself all the way out to Marysville, just to let me know that she's not _really_ in love with me. What a load of crap."

"It's not crap."

"You're scared."

"I am not."

"You're fucking terrified," she growled, over his boyish protests. "That's the only reason you're here. To find out if I'll fight you. Competition - it's exactly the right word."

"Well, it won't be much of one," he retorted, smirking again. "I mean, let's face it, while we're about neck and neck in the looks department, in the area that really matters to Rachel? I could beat you with laryngitis and performing Nickelback"

Quinn scoffed. "This isn't high school. I'm not going to sing a Springfield song to her while you're off in San Diego on spring break."

Jesse's eyebrows popped. "Finn sang Jessie's Girl to her? That's brilliant."

She pursed her lips. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Squabbling over Rachel like a couple of high school girls. She's an adult. She can decide who and what she wants without any assistance or hindrance from either of us."

He smirked. "Then I win." He stood, leaning closer as he pushed in his chair. "Pussycat."

The quivering roared to life, an engine starting up after a long time without use. But she bit on her tongue. The guard was opening the door, seeing him up and ready to leave, and he was strutting out. One last smug grin.

The moment Quinn was loosed upon the general prison population again, she hit the gas without relent. First, her shared cell with Carol, who sat etching a fresh drawing on the wall where the custodian had last painted over it.

"Care to take a walk with me?"

Carol said nothing, but she stood and followed. Down the long hall, down a flight of stairs, and finally, Carol slammed the cell door shut behind Quinn.

"Time for a little girl talk, Hood."

The words greeted her tongue like a hug from an old friend, and Quinn preened as Hood stared, from her to Carol.

"You said my father tried to rip you off. Explain."

Hood slipped her nail file under her pillow, glanced at Carol.

"Don't look at her, look at me."

"I ain't scared of you, skinny bitch," Hood scoffed.

"Listen, you ignoramus, if you don't tell me the whole story, _now_ , I am going to be the least of your problems."

She licked her lips, huffed. "Your dad's the reason I'm in here in the first place, okay? I was sore for cash and this fairy dude said I'd get fifty percent of the cut if I delivered to one of his regular customers - your daddy. So I did, and then he wanted shit for free, so I told him, 'Go ahead and tell my parole officer, I don't care!' And then he did. And I told my parole officer he was buying drugs, and that bitch said I was a pathogen liar or something."

"Who was the guy?"

"What guy?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "The one who asked you to deliver the drugs. Who was it?"

"I already did you one favor."

"Maybe Carol can get an answer out of you."

Hood's gaze darted aside anxiously, but she spouted, "She ain't gonna do nothing, she can't."

"Look, whatever you had against my father, it has nothing to do with me."

"Girl, I hated you before I even knew him!"

Quinn's eyebrow quirked. "What?"

"You mean you still don't recognize me? Figures. All you white folks think we all look the same. I'm Aphasia Harris, bitch. From Jane Addams Academy? You Nude Erections stole our chance of winning Sectionals. You ruined our year."

That was all? Quinn glanced back at Carol, who shrugged.

"For God's sake, grow up."

"I'm not telling you."

"Fine. Except who else is going to believe you?"

Aphasia paused.

Quinn pressed closer. "Give me a name. That's all I want."

#

People hide the craziest things on their flash drives. It was a stroke of genius, and Graham knew it the moment the words passed Ms. Berry's lips. Only, in the moment, he'd been too preoccupied with how distraught she was to act on the hunch. And still, he'd made Miller promise to follow her home - discreetly, of course - before he drove back that now familiar route to the Fabray house.

Georgie screamed his usual panic as the doorbell rang, but the sounds faded out and soon, Mrs. Fabray opened the door, cradling the dog.

"Detective Graham. Is something wrong?"

"I've had an idea. Is it all right if I take another look at your husband's study?"

Mrs. Fabray stepped aside. "I'll make some tea."

"Thank you."

With implicit permission, he couldn't wait, not even to remove his jacket. Straight into the study upstairs, he started his search over, beginning with the desk drawers. In a separate container in the back of the second drawer, there were three flash drives. He plugged in the first, no waiting to take them back to the station, but it was only a collection of tax statements from various years. He set it aside and pushed in the second. This one had a few folders layered before he arrived at the real content. He opened up the first picture in a series.

"Oh, my God."


	26. Freedom

**Freedom**

Promptly after securing a raincheck on tea with Mrs. Fabray, Graham was en route to the station with the flash drive safely tucked in a plastic evidence bag in his jacket pocket. Despite his hurry, Miller was already awaiting him at his desk, coffee in hand and frown on her lips.

His instructions were short: "Call Coleman's lawyer, tell him we need to see him for some routine follow-up questions. I'm taking this down to evidence."

"What is it?"

"Motive."

Logging the USB itself wouldn't take nearly as long as the forensic analysis of each and every one of its contents, but for now, for his third confrontation with Josh Coleman, he just needed one picture. Once he extracted a promise to deliver the first photo within the next few hours, Graham had little to do but first, offer a more detailed explanation to Miller and second, wait.

Fortunately, Hartwell was no slouch. Within four hours, Graham's LPD email pinged with the arrival of the photo and her comprehensive report. She'd saved him the trouble of having to read the entirety of it instantly with one sentence in the body of the email: 'The image was captured, or at least transferred to a digital format, March 23 2013 and it does not appear to be altered in any way.'

Only minutes later, Miller tapped him on the shoulder. Graham could not have planned such perfect timing. He snatched up his laptop.

A hall away, in an interrogation room, Coleman slouched back in his chair, staring venomously next to his suited, thumb tapping lawyer, Lupkas.

"Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to join us." Graham opened up his computer, maximized the attached image. He felt Miller shift beside him where they sat. "To begin with, is it still your testimony that you have never met the deceased, Russell Fabray?"

" _Yes_ ," Coleman growled, before Lupkas waved a hand to silence him.

"Mr. Coleman has made it clear that he has had no association with Mr. Fabray outside of his attendance at William McKinley High School with the accused, Ms. Fabray, and furthermore, that he had nothing but passing relations with Ms. Fabray."

Graham nodded. "All right. Then, I have one question. Do you have any idea how this picture wound up in Mr. Fabray's possession?" He rotated his laptop.

Coleman blanched.

"This is blatant defamation of my client's character," Lupkas barked instantly.

"It would only be defamation if it was Photoshopped, which, according to our lead analyst, it hasn't been," Graham countered.

"Then perhaps Mr. Fabray had an infatuation with my client."

"Right. The kid he never met," Miller interjected.

"It's not entirely unheard-of for strangers to turn into stalkers after a chance meeting or even a mere passing."

Graham passed his focus to the boy to the right. "When was this photograph taken, Mr. Coleman?"

He was looking particularly unwell. The muscles in his jaw bulged.

"You don't have to answer that."

"Actually, he does, and any other questions we ask, if he doesn't want to be seriously considered as a suspect in Russell Fabray's murder," Miller retorted.

Lupkas puffed. "That picture does not even remotely resemble evidence that my client had anything to do with this, or any other murder you might try to pin on him."

"It doesn't resemble evidence, but it does resemble motive. If Mr. Coleman here knew Mr. Fabray had photographic proof that he isn't so different from those 'fags and dykes in the rainbow brigade,'" she hissed, narrowing her eyes over at the green, mute boy, "then that's certainly reason enough to suspect him."

Coleman burst. "Look, I didn't kill him! I-I didn't know he had the picture; hell, I didn't know that picture even existed. I was - I was captain of the rugby team at McKinley. I had a legacy to uphold, you know? So sometimes...sometimes I would score some juice to buff up. Well, the guy I got it from, he gave me some free weed one night and I...guess he must've took pictures."

Lupkas looked as if he was going to smash his head against the table.

Graham twisted the laptop, taking a second look at the other man in the photograph. All he could see was a balding head.

"You were in high school when this happened, correct?" he pressed.

Coleman bobbed his head, staring at the floor.

"Is that when you met Mr. Fabray?"

"I swear to you, I never met the guy." He ruffled his hair, sighing. "I almost bought some pot from the guy I used to get the other stuff from like, last year, maybe, maybe that's how my prints got on that bag. But I changed my mind and I gave it back, I swear."

Miller allowed the tiniest of nods to pass between them, and Graham finally believed those big, frantic eyes. He straightened.

"Who is the man in the picture?"

#

In the area of comforting their distraught daughter, Rachel's fathers hadn't improved much over the years. Rather, Dad, at least, fell into the same patterns he had when she was young. First a bellow, "Sunshine, I'm home!" Lacking a reply, he peeked inside and padded to her bedside in his socks to set a tall glass of water on her nightstand. Then, he kissed her hair and left, and there hadn't been a peep from him since, not even Sinatra on the record player, his go-to artist for cooking dinner.

Rachel hadn't touched the glass. Empty of it as she was, she'd never felt so far under water.

The door creaked again, and she shuffled her sleeves over her thumbs, swiping her cheeks with the fabric. Weight depressed the bed, and Rachel wished she had pretended to be asleep when Jesse aligned himself with her body and squirmed his arms around her. She closed her eyes anyway when his lips pressed to her shoulder.

"Hey, sweet," he cooed, and his hand maneuvered under the blanket to stroke her belly. "Tell me."

Rachel pried her dry lips apart, swallowed a breath of air, and croaked, "Detective Graham has given up on Quinn's case. She's going to be convicted."

How it was possible for her to cry anymore tears, she didn't know, but the words cracked open some dam inside her, some last holdout, so that she was sobbing again into her moist pillow. Jesse anchored her with the tight squeeze of his arms and the soothing rub of his warm hands slipping beneath her top. His kisses were soothing comfort on her shoulder, her cheek, hair, and she regained some breath under his touches.

But she knew the moment it changed, because her body, rather than curling into his affection, recoiled, tightened. His lips lingered longer. They traveled to the shell of her ear, coasting down to her neck. His thumbs popped under the hem of her bra.

Rachel wrestled away, out of his arms, out of the bed, her voice weak with strain but her message firm, "Stop. Just stop."

Jesse was half-up after her, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Just - don't. Don't play innocent." Her arms folded with finality. "Don't pretend that was comfort."

His jaw rounded once before he stood. "All right, I won't. I have spent every single day we've been apart missing you."

"Missing my body," she countered.

"That's not true."

"That's how you're acting."

His frown lines deepened. "Am I wrong for wanting to be intimate with my fiancee?"

"No...just for trying to have sex when I am devastated."

"So when am I supposed to try? When you finally come home where you belong, but can't stay because you have to do a favor for Quinn?" he puffed. "Or when you're obsessing over setting up a visitation with Quinn? Or when you're worried sick over whether or not something terrible will happen to Quinn at our wedding?" Off her stare, he nodded, something - not quite his usual smirk - crossed his lips. "That's right. It's been six months. Since you sent her invitation out. Am I not supposed to miss being with you after six months?"

What could Rachel say? The ever-fighting, ever-determined part of her wanted to say that he was wrong. That it had only been since he left Lima, or since Quinn's arrest. Or that, no, he was supposed to miss her, not sex.

Only she knew it was her. She was wrong. Jesse didn't just miss sex, he missed being intimate. Close to her. Sharing a piece of themselves only the other ever got to see. Because it had been six months since she had opened herself that way to him, and she'd been slowly draining him of herself since. No longer did she lean on his shoulder when pained, or chatter at his ear about her day. And it wasn't as if he hadn't tried to find his way back in.

But the door had shut. He knew it. Despite his confidence, his self-righteousness, she saw the pain.

"You have no idea how badly I feel about this," she snuffed.

His hands cupped hers. "Hey. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I'm trying…to get back to the way we were."

His smarmy grin was contagious.

"She left him in The Way We Were," she reminded him nonetheless.

"Because they were too different, which is a problem you and I have never had," he countered, drawing her into a waltzing pose.

Rachel wavered, comfortable in his grasp, safe. "Do you really think that sex is going to change anything?"

His response was almost immediate. "It's a start. A way to reconnect. Remind you how good we are together, and how much I love you."

His blue eyes were clear and earnest, his palm against her cheek warm and reverent. Rachel squeezed her hand over his bulking shoulder and breathed, deliberately.

"I don't need to be reminded. I know. I love you, too. But - "

"Then that's all we need," he rushed out, grinning, spinning her.

Her stomach dropped so low she moaned, and he steadied her on her feet.

"Are you okay, love? I'm sorry."

No. Rachel leaned against him, breathed. No, nothing was okay. But he was so happy.

Her iPhone buzzed madly on the nightstand, clinking against the full glass of water. She pushed Jesse's arms aside. Detective Graham's number lit up her screen. He was, quite possibly, the last person she wished to speak to at the moment. But if something had happened to Quinn -

"Hello?"

"We've got him."

#

The brick bungalow was situated innocently in a row of exact duplicates, save for the design of the front lawn. This one in particular had not one, but two pink flamingos framing the start of the walk, in addition to several grinning garden gnomes peeping out from the hedges that lined the porch. Graham didn't need to look at Miller to know her nose was scrunched tight as they passed between the immobile lawn decorations and up the steps, though they both hit a hitch in their stride when they arrived at the welcome mat. Lionel Richie stared up at them with the words 'Hello, Is It Me You're Looking For?' next to his bedroom eyes.

Graham couldn't resist a glance at her this time, just once before he rang the doorbell, which, of course, was no ordinary ringer, but a specialized tune playing 'Hello, Dolly.' It faded out. Nothing.

The third time Graham pressed the button, Miller offered, "At work?"

"He doesn't work."

"In the conventional sense."

"Let's try the back."

He pounded, pounded, pounded at the door and then -

" _He's in the garage!_ "

Miller bolted; Graham jiggled the knob. A shot rang out. He drew his gun. The lock gave with a solid kick. The garage door was wide open.

Sandy Ryerson saw him. And crumpled to his knees, his getaway vehicle's tire shot out, surrounded on one side by Lamb, Adams, and Miller with weapons drawn, his only remaining exit blocked by Graham himself.

"I'm sorry!" he bawled into the sleeves of his bathrobe. "It was an accident, I swear! I swear, I swear, it was an accident, I didn't mean to kill him!"

Graham lowered his gun. "Tell me what happened, Sandy."

"I was just trying to get the pictures, that's all, I only meant to knock him out, but he tried to - I had to hit him again, it was self-defense, don't you see?"

"Why did you use a cheerleading trophy if you only meant to knock him out?" Miller demanded.

"I-I didn't. I used a brick. From my garden. You saw it, out back, it's a work in progress, but I've been using tips from Martha Stewart, the woman's a _genius_ , don't you think it's turning out just beautiful?"

Graham offered him a hand. "Can you show me the brick?"

#

If anything could convince Quinn she was no longer experiencing reality, it was this. Sandy Ryerson. The flamboyant drug dealer who paid for the Braniacs' Smarty Pants trip, back when. The criminal mastermind behind her father's murder and her imprisonment. The reason for months of - hell.

Why?

McCormack was her only window, for the time being, into Ryerson's head. He'd taken on her father as a client in his 'medical marijuana trade' shortly after he was turned down by the transplant committee. The relationship had been friendly at first, until her father grew greedy and, as with his other suppliers, like Aphasia, started threatening for free product. He found the photos on Ryerson's personal computer.

It was simple to figure out from there. Blackmail had only served to make Ryerson panic. He went to the house intending to find where her father was keeping the copies and get them back. Things got out of hand. Once he realized what he'd done, he took the pictures from their hidden spot in a panel under the sink and then hit her father a few more times with her cheerleading trophy to be sure the guilt would be laid upon the cuckquean wife or the estranged daughter.

The officers responsible for the arrest caught the whole confession on their body cameras. They also found the incriminating photos, which were covered in her father's prints, as well as Ryerson's dealing records, detailing their business exchanges. Ryerson himself handed over the brick he'd originally used, still coated in her father's DNA.

According to McCormack, all this, and Aphasia's cooperative statement confirming the business relationship between Ryerson and her father, meant all they had to do was wait for the district attorney to drop the charges against her. As usual, he was right.

It took only a day.

Now Quinn sat waiting on the edge of her bunk, hands folded together while Carol contemplated the split ends in her dark hair. She hardly noticed the quiet. Her pulse, out of control, filled it for her with its mad pounding: _Free free free free free!_

Life stretched out before her again, not grey and endless like the cell rows she walked every day, but bright and hopeful, like the smile she remembered every night.

The ever-cynical part of her nature scoffed and begged to know, what did she have to look so forward to? Her father was dead. Her mother hadn't been to see her in the entirety of her incarceration. Nor had her so-called friends, and although a handful of them had sent a heartening CD to cheer her on, the rest announced their belief in her guilt with their utter silence. Her clients and prospects had dropped like flies, leaving the business she had built to greatness barely afloat.

Her life, as she had known it, was in shambles, save for that one constant light.

"Inmate Lucy Quinn Fabray, roll up," a guard called.

Quinn breathed in. Her lungs filled with air instead of ash. She grinned.

"What are you waiting for?" Carol grunted.

"Thank you," she burst. "If I miss anything about this place, it'll be you."

When Quinn glanced back at the end of the row, Carol waved from their cell. Encumbered only with her box of CDs, she followed Locke down to receiving and discharge.

She offered her hand. "Thank you."

A hearty shake and a wink left her smiling. "Stay out of trouble."

One last room to cross. McCormack awaited her beside an officer, bearing garment bags over his arm. For the first time, Quinn felt a genuine smile emerge at the sight of him.

"Are you Lucy Quinn Fabray, number 671321620?"

"I am."

"Do you have any dress outs?"

"I have them right here," McCormack interjected then. "Take your pick."

"The changing room is to your right."

Quinn didn't even bother to peek in the bags first before she discarded the orange jumpsuit. For now, she would have to deal with prison regulation underwear, but the rest of her body was free. She could look down at herself and see - red, black, or blue, for now. Black Georgette, that would do. There were even heels tucked in the bottom to match. She kicked aside the roughshod sneakers.

McCormack offered her box and his arm to her when she emerged.

"Much better," he praised. "I hope you're ready for this; the press is dying for a statement."

"I'm ready."

"You know what you're going to say?"

Quinn shook her head, smiling. "No idea. I couldn't care less."

For once, he didn't argue. In fact, he almost laughed.

The guard opened up that final door. There were people - everywhere.

The only one that mattered came flying up the moment the prison door clanged shut behind them, and it was fortunate that McCormack was deft enough to grab the box back from Quinn, because she spared not a thought for the CDs when she grabbed onto Rachel - the same way Rachel was grabbing her, like she thought she'd never have this again. But here it was. Freedom.

Quinn closed her eyes and swam in it.

It was only the touch of another hand to her back that alerted her to the presence of - not only her mother, but the entire glee club. Cheering.


	27. Celebration

**Celebration**

There were many days in Quinn's life that she was certain she would always remember with vivid detail, but none in that moment stood out so clearly to her as the day the glee club lost Regionals, the day she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, the day her mother welcomed her back home. She had been so sure the surprise of her mom's voice beckoning the way it used to, of her standing there timid and pleading, could never be matched. This second last-minute save proved her wrong.

For there Judy Fabray stood now, timid and pleading, after months without a word.

And it was the same for Quinn as it was back then. She was but a child looking for only one thing from her parent, and seeing it in her mother's eyes, she loosed one arm from Rachel to gather Judy beneath it. Relief shook Judy's breath loose against Quinn's neck on one side, and on the other, Rachel peeked and slid away, though not without a tightening squeeze.

Quinn had never seen such a joyous grin on Rachel's face as when she backed up to join - Jesse St. James. Her own smile fractured.

"Everybody!" Santana clapped her hands together, silencing the reporters McCormack had tracked a yard away, and led off, " _For she's a jolly good lady_ …"

As if it weren't enough to be embarrassed into laughter with a ridiculous serenade, Mercedes started off a procession of hugs to fill Quinn's arms, cheeks, and heart. Sam's parents shook her hand after all three of their children choked the breath from her; Artie fist bumped her to follow up Kitty's squeeze; Joe whispered praise to Jesus in her ear; Mr. and Mrs. Schuester squeezed her in unison. And then there were the rest.

They made no move toward Quinn; she made none toward them. Tina was the first to speak.

"We're so sorry, Quinn."

Mike nodded avid agreement.

"Yeah, we listened to the news reports instead of our friend," Blaine continued, gesturing to his shamefaced comrades.

Reluctant, Kurt added, "We were wrong."

"We should have supported you," Brittany concurred enthusiastically. "We were all swept away by Rod Remington's centaur powers."

A pause. Quinn cleared her throat.

"It's all right. I wasn't surprised."

Kurt sniffed, but Mike hurried on, "We would understand if you never want to speak to any of us again, but we're hoping you'll give us the chance to apologize properly first."

"Starting with a girls' trip to the salon, because you look like actual shit." Santana grinned sweetly.

"It's nice of you, but I have some things I need to take care of at home."

"I can take your things home," her mother volunteered, nigh whispering. "You should enjoy yourself." She smiled gingerly.

"Please, Quinn," Mercedes interjected. "We'd really love to help you celebrate." With another hug, she imparted against Quinn's ear, "And we'll get rid of these posers, if you want."

Quinn barely restrained a grin; Mercedes winked up at her.

The entire group hung on the precipice of Quinn's silence, yet there was little time to gauge the sincerity of the rehearsed apology. McCormack was losing the interest of the press, though his filibuster was as yet uninterrupted. Kurt bore his usual expression of discomfort in the moment of admitting wrongdoing, though his focus was not entirely encompassed by it. His eyes darted, left and right, toward Mercedes, toward Rachel. Blaine, too, attempted to catch Sam's gaze. None of them gave, staring steadfastly at Quinn herself, waiting for her verdict before they would declare those unfaithful friends acquitted or exiled. Including Rachel, arms folded, Jesse St. James' palm encompassing her shoulder. Ready, Quinn supposed, to guide her away.

She dragged a breath. "Fine."

The flurry of activity and cacophony of voices resumed. While the herd bustled with excitement back toward the rows of waiting cars, Brittany practically hopped the few feet to her side, collecting her arm to drag her toward a Ford Fusion rental. Her mother squeezed her shoulder in parting; Rachel appeared again in her line of vision.

"Quinn, are you sure - "

"Sweet, are you coming?"

Between Jesse St. James' call and Brittany's tugging, the words died. Now was not their time.

#

A girls' trip, as Quinn soon deduced, meant she was alone with Santana and Brittany for the better part of the day. But, though the trickery was not appreciated, nothing could ruin this day. Nothing could be so bad as to make her forget that she was free, because it was in everything. The company may not have been comfortable, but she could not have had it a day ago. The view from the road may only have been Ohio cornfields, dead for the approaching winter, but she couldn't have enjoyed it a week ago. She rolled down the window just to feel a part of it.

And Rachel may have been far out of reach somewhere with her fiance, but not for long. Whatever 'celebration' was in store, Rachel would be there, and that assurance especially allowed Quinn to relax and be pampered at the Jewels Health and Beauty Spa; the same spa she, Santana, and Brittany had visited regularly since Sue Sylvester offered them gift certificates as their first Cheerios membership perk. The mere aroma of the place was so dizzying as to make Quinn feel like a wide-eyed fourteen year old again, wobbling on her heels.

While Brittany checked in with the beady-eyed receptionist, Santana and Quinn found comfort on opposite sides of the plush lobby couch, though neither found the courage to speak until their third musketeer plopped happily between them.

"So, what's this 'celebration' going to entail?"

Santana didn't even glance up from her magazine. "They're recruiting a lynch mob."

"What she _means_ ," Brittany chided, "is that we're sworn to secrecy."

"So a party kicked off with an elaborate group number then."

Brittany huffed. "How do you do that?"

With that, Quinn was content to smirk and settle into Sophisticate's most recent issue, despite the occasional tug of someone's gaze. At times during the next few hours at the stylist's chair, having her hair shampooed, cut, layered, her nails trimmed, filed, polished, her face exfoliated, masked, steamed - every step scrubbing her cleaner, liberating her from months of grime and an unusual neglect - she would find the tug was unfamiliar, brought on by a worker or another customer. Recognizing her, perhaps, for some shared whispers the moment she pretended to lose interest in them. But more often than not, it was Santana's dark eyes staring back at her - and then immediately to some far off point.

Fortunately, with the addition of the face mask, her stares lessened in frequency, enough so that Quinn was able to block away the outside world and its distractions, finding her peace in Rachel. Dwelling on the way she had run into Quinn's arms, the way she had pressed the entire length of her body into their embrace. Reliving her smile, brighter than any sun. Blazing with love in everything.

Quinn only wished she had her CDs with her, so that she could add the velvety hum of Rachel's voice to her world of serenity.

The question of Jesse St. James didn't trouble her too much - for the moment. Though his presence at her release had been unexpected, it made perfect sense once she considered it all. Supporting Quinn was his only option for the time being; any resistance would merely push Rachel further away from him. And, to be blunt, it was Quinn's own fault. After what she had allowed Rachel to believe, it would be entirely unfair to expect anything else.

But that would all change now. It _could_ all change now.

Voices nearby stirred her mind from its attention on Rachel's dimples and the silk of her hair; Santana was leaving. Brittany's hand stayed Quinn from rising after her.

"She's going to get her massage. We didn't schedule one for you; we remembered how you feel about strange people touching you when you're naked," she explained proudly.

Quinn relaxed back into her chair. "Why aren't you getting one then?"

"I wanted to keep you company."

"Mm."

Just as her eyelids were drifting shut again, Brittany breathed, "I'm sorry I didn't visit."

She readjusted, but those big blue eyes wouldn't stray away. "Well, you did think I murdered someone."

"No, I didn't. I didn't."

"Can we not talk about this?"

"You don't believe me."

Quinn squinted reluctantly at Brittany's pouting face. "Is there any reason I should?"

Finally, she looked at her nails. "I'm really sorry, Quinn."

A pregnant pause settled between them. The peace was gone, replaced by the ash of all that these few months had burnt. It was impossible not to believe Brittany; in all the time Quinn had known her, not once had she ever lied. Yet -

"If you really thought I was innocent… Did you ever even try to talk to Santana about it?"

Brittany's anguished expression said it all. "You know San - "

"Yes, I know Santana. I know that if anyone could have convinced her, it would have been you."

"I'm so sorry, Quinn. I so wish I had handled things differently. It's just that everything and everyone was saying you were guilty, everything except my heart. I just thought...it was one of those times when I was just...stupid."

She shook her head, mildly. "You're not stupid, Brittany."

She smiled. "I love you, Q. And so does San."

Lightly, Quinn patted Brittany's hand. "Let's just enjoy the day, okay?"

With a buoyant nod, Brittany finally settled back, and Quinn closed her eyes. If she was going to have to go through five more of those conversations, this was going to be a long day.

#

Fortunately, Santana seemed to be feeling about as talkative as Quinn herself. She didn't even have enough bravado to make a snide remark when they'd returned to the car and she presented a silk scarf, to which Quinn commented, "I'm flattered, but I've already told you, I'm not that into threesomes." Not even a 'wanky.' Instead, Brittany giggled and clarified that the next portion was a surprise. And, of course, huffed when Quinn pointed out that she knew the way to the high school.

Still, Quinn cooperated once they were outside the old familiar building, allowing Brittany to cover her eyes with the scarf and the two of them to guide her down the halls with a hand on each elbow.

The applause started before they even had the knot undone, and Quinn blinked to adjust her eyes to the ridiculous amount of confetti flying through the choir room at that very moment. The room was all decorated, in fact, from a 'Welcome Home Quinn' sign strung above the whiteboard to lights which looked suspiciously like their old Christmas tree lights strung around the piano to punch, snacks, and a massive cake on top of the file cabinets outside Mr. Schuester's old office. The chairs were cleared and stacked aside, leaving the risers empty save for a microphone, and the rest of the room vacant for dancing and mingling.

Mr. Schuester himself stood aside with his very pregnant wife, Sam's parents and siblings, and Jesse St. James while the rest, including Brittany and Santana now, had gathered in straight lines on the risers. Quinn sat obediently on the piano bench when Mike gestured to it, crossing her legs politely. Rachel beamed at her from the back row. Blaine adjusted his bowtie and stepped to the microphone.

" _Oh, I had a lot to say  
Was thinking all my time away  
I missed you  
And things weren't the same_"

It wasn't a particularly unique choice, all things considered, but it was honest. Even Kurt looked her in the eye as he sang his solo bit. So when they closed out, Quinn clapped with the others on the sideline and uttered a graceful, "Thank you."

And immediately, the room erupted in the usual business of a party. Or, at least, a glee club party. Blaine started off the solos with That's What I Like, with the assistance of Artie; Santana grabbed Brittany around the waist for a dance while Rachel and Jesse, Mike and Tina, Joe and Kurt, Stevie and Kitty, Sam and Stacey, Mr. and Mrs. Schuester, and Mr. and Mrs. Evans joined in; and Mercedes met Quinn for another squeeze of a hug.

"It feels so good to hug you," Mercedes laughed out, dropping on her heels again. "How was it? Are you okay? Do I need to kick some Lima Heights ass?"

Quinn couldn't restrain a crooked grin. "I'm fine. Really, it was okay. Worth it just to feel more like myself again." She tossed her considerably shortened hair for effect, winking.

Another laugh. "Well, let's get your fineness on the dance floor then."

The next hour was filled with switching dance partners and switching singers. While Sam was jamming out Cake By the Ocean, Mike reminded Quinn how to dance like a pro; while Santana was crooning Love On the Brain, Tina updated Quinn on her classes at Brown and her new major; while Joe owned Paris, Mr. and Mrs. Schuester hugged her goodbye by the punch, making her promise to send an email once in a while before they went home to relieve their sitter; shortly after, while Brittany was wearing everyone out on Chained to the Rhythm, Mr. and Mrs. Evans took their leave with a hug each.

But throughout it all, Quinn never let Rachel leave her sight. And neither did Jesse St. James. Even while Rachel was dancing with Mercedes, Kitty, or Artie, he hovered nearby, as if his mere presence could keep Quinn at bay.

Truth be told, Quinn had never been one for public displays. A private moment, if one could be found, would be far preferable. But Quinn was hardly going to keep her distance. Not now, not anymore, not when she was free. Not when Rachel was shining like a beacon in this crowded room and watching Quinn the way Quinn was watching her, blushing peach pink and dancing and laughing - oh, God, her laugh.

The moment Artie wheeled over to Kitty and Sam left Quinn with a kiss on the cheek, she started over. Jesse intercepted her, smiling and offering his hand.

"Quinn. Congratulations."

She spoke up over the new thumping song, "Thank you. If you'll excuse - "

"Truly, I'm happy for you."

He was still smiling down at her, though his hand had dropped to his side with her rejection. Her eyebrow quirked.

"Why do I feel like you actually mean that?"

Jesse laughed. "I want you away from my wife, not unlawfully imprisoned."

Steel struck her expression. "She's not your wife."

"Yet," he smirked.

Quinn pushed past him, none too gently, but Rachel was already occupied by Joe's arms. And so it went; Quinn's attempts clobbered over and over again, either by Jesse's interference - though he quickly learned that he was better off grabbing Rachel for a dance than trying to keep Quinn's attention - or by an unknowing fourth party, even as their numbers declined when Stevie and Stacey tired themselves out. Her frustration grew monstrous, unable to act, unable to reach anything but Rachel's sweet, sad eyes.

Until, oddly enough, Artie led Jesse out of the party with, from what Quinn could see, some animated gesturing and a piece of cake.

Mercedes, as it turned out, was capable of some subtlety, because she waited, waltzing with Quinn, approximately two minutes before she slid Sam out of Rachel's hands and cried merrily, "Switch!"

Quinn was so grateful she couldn't even bring herself to laugh, only to clasp onto the hand she'd been given and draw Rachel, furiously blushing, starry-eyed Rachel, into a dance.

"Hi," Quinn breathed into a smile.

Rachel beamed back at her, and peace filled Quinn's world again.

"Hi. How are you doing?" Concern wrinkled Rachel's forehead.

"I'm great," she chuckled.

A little smile curled her lips. "Good. I mean - I know you weren't expecting all this, and I wasn't either; Mercedes said everyone wanted to surprise me as well as you, though I think really they were just afraid I would tell you, but honestly, it wasn't fair of them to put you on the spot like that, let alone for Santana and Brittany to basically corner you into submission."

"It's all right. I'm all right," she soothed, squeezing Rachel's fingers between her own.

"You always say that," she dismissed, though a flush had entered her cheeks. "Though I'll never understand how you can forgive _this_."

"Who says I've forgiven anyone?"

"If you haven't, you're sure doing a wonderful job of letting them believe you have."

"I'd rather that than keep Blaine from being the best man at Sam's wedding, or Tina from starring in Artie's first film."

Rachel's fingers fluttered into Quinn's hair, thumb whispering across her bruised cheek, but the touch lasted only seconds before she seemed to realize and flattened her hand to Quinn's shoulder.

"I - Quinn, you're not responsible if that doesn't happen."

"Now I won't be."

Rachel puffed, flickering her bangs. "Quinn - "

"Rachel," she echoed, grinning impishly.

"Fine, I can take a hint," she sighed. "You don't want to talk about it with me."

" _Or_ , maybe, I don't want to argue with you. Maybe I'd rather enjoy dancing with you," Quinn purred.

She enjoyed far too much the way Rachel's big brown eyes snapped to hers, the way her throat flexed with a swallow, her gasp when Quinn spun her out and back in, closer than before. Close enough so that their gaze was locked, so that if Rachel tried to focus anywhere else, it would have to be on Quinn's lips.

It might have been the most perfect moment of the day, rivaling even that hug the second Quinn was free. If only because, for a time, there was no interruption. There was _no one_ else. There was only Rachel, her body moving into Quinn's, bending to her will. Her hand, growing slowly braver, smoothing up the line of Quinn's neck. Her parted red lips wanting, waiting for kisses. Her dark eyes staring, dilating.

It might have been perfect, except for Jesse St. James.

" _Coming out of my cage  
And I've been doing just fine  
Gotta, gotta be down  
Because I want it all_"

Rachel froze almost entirely, save for her eyes, which switched between the two of them with an anxiety so great that Quinn could stand only a few moments of it before she walked away. Now was not their time.


	28. Almost

The party had wound down considerably in its last hour. The dancing had ended as chairs were unstacked and occupied for chatting, drinking, and snacking. Only one of the Bluetooth speakers they had set up still held enough charge to play a karaoke mix from Kurt's phone.

Quinn toed her heels where they sat abandoned beneath her own chair, swirling her drink, vaguely aware that Joe was speaking to her but blissfully incognizant of his words. She attributed her fuzziness to the fact that Artie had, with permission, spiked the punch bowl in honor of Puck.

Rachel had retreated back to Jesse St. James' side following his crowd-pleasing number; her legs were, at present, crossed away from him, toward Sam's animated gestures. In fact, Quinn was certain she hadn't seen them exchange two words since Mr. Brightside. Rachel's fist tugged the hem of her skirt over her knee, flattening the fabric and hiding an inch of tan thigh.

Jesse scooted his chair forward to block her view, sending her a scathing scowl. Quinn yawned at him.

"Honey," Mercedes cooed, squeezing her shoulder. "You ready to call it a night?"

She nodded, finding her heels again.

Santana slung her purse over her shoulder. "We'll take you home."

"Oh, no, you won't," Mercedes countered, standing. "You two are gonna help clean up this mess so Mr. Schue isn't stuck with it in the morning. _I'm_ taking her home."

In the ensuing glare-off, Quinn downed her punch. "Okay, well," she swung herself up, "thank you, all of you, for today."

Artie tugged her down, starting off the next procession of hugs to say farewell for now, as they all promised soon-to-come calls and visits to each other. As Sam released Quinn from a bear hug, Jesse St. James approached to offer his hand. She passed by him, instead tapping Joe to replace him in Rachel's arms. It was only a brief embrace this time, but Quinn promised the both of them as she parted, "I'll see you soon."

Rachel smiled up at her.

#

On the drive home, Quinn leaned out the window of Mercedes' parents' Tahoe into the breeze, ignoring the tugging at her dress - and the laughter.

"Are you a dog or drunk?" Mercedes teased. "Sit back, you're making me nervous!"

Quinn grinned over her shoulder. "Are you afraid I'm going to hit a mailbox?"

"No," she chuckled. "You should see your hair right now."

"I don't care." And she shook her head just to prove it.

For a few moments, Mercedes lapsed into silence. "Quinn?"

"Mm?"

The continued silence drew Quinn's attention away from the stars shining clear above and back into the car. Mercedes still watched the road ahead, but her expression was no longer laughing and joyful. Quinn reached out, gently clasping her arm.

Mercedes tried to smile, but her voice cracked when she said, "Is it okay to admit now how terrified I was? I must've thought about coming back here a hundred times a day. But I knew what you'd say. You'd say the same thing you said when I visited you after your accident - 'I'm fine. The best thing you can do for me is to focus on you.'" She sniffed.

"I'm glad you did."

"I'm not. I wish I'd stayed here and found a way to help you, like Rachel did."

"And you'd have lost four months off your career, like Rachel did, too."

"Some things are more important than your job."

"Except when it's not just a job," Quinn countered, dropping her hand. "It's what you love."

"Well, maybe I love you, too."

Staring out the window couldn't keep her from feeling Mercedes' glances.

"The point is...you're like a sister to me, Quinn. I didn't know what I was going to do without you."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore. It's over."

Over. Except, of course, for retrieving her belongings - and her car - from the police; settling the bill with her lawyer; sorting out whatever mess awaited her back in New York, including the literal mess she was sure had been made of her loft in her absence and the figurative mess of her business; and, of course, having another of these discomfiting conversations with her mother.

It hadn't fully occurred to Quinn until that moment that she was going to have to go back into the house in which her father was murdered tonight.

"Hey, are you okay?" Mercedes' voice came as if from far away.

"Uh huh. I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

Quinn leaned back out the window to let the wind wash over her clammy skin and plug her ears until the car slowed into her driveway. The house was dark, though her mother had left the front porch lights on. Mercedes touched her hand, and Quinn shook away the jolt with a smile.

"Thank you for the ride." She smoothed her palms on her dress skirt. "Are you going back to LA tomorrow?"

"No, I'm staying over the weekend, visiting with the folks. They would have been here today, but they had this major surgery scheduled. My mom's talking about sending you flowers or something."

"Tell her she's already done enough for me."

"I absolutely, one hundred percent will not." Mercedes flashed a grin. "You know, sometimes you could just say thank you. I know what you're afraid of, but it's not selfish to accept friendship."

Quinn opened her door. "Good night, Mercedes."

"Night! I'll call you when I get back to LA!"

The house loomed over Quinn. She rushed under the glow of the porch and dug in the brass mail slot for the spare key, flicking on the foyer lights as soon as her hand fit through the crack of the door. It looked just as it had. A prime showroom of the Fabrays' wealth. Somehow, she had expected - she didn't know what. Some haunted place with cackling voices and blood-stained walls? The utter ordinariness of it sent Quinn upstairs with a calmer step.

Her room, too, was just as she'd left it, save for the items her mother had placed inside. The garment bags containing her dresses were laid over her suitcase on the end of the bed. The box of CDs was on her nightstand next to the lamp. And a cloche was sitting on the middle of her writing desk. Underneath waited her favorite dinner when she'd been a child: macaroni and cheese with biscuits. It was cold now, despite her mother's efforts with the cover, but Quinn wolfed it down nonetheless.

When not a crumb was left on the plate, she pilfered through her suitcase and set it aside with the garment bags. The nightgown she chose hung a little loose on her frame. Then, finally, she laid down in the dark, in her old room, in her old bed, alone.

But she slept as well as she had on a prison bunk.

#

"So, what, you're not talking to me now?"

As riled as Rachel was, it was a miracle she managed to bite back on the response burning at her tongue - that it was about time he got it through his thick skull.

Jesse had been pestering at her almost since Quinn left with that thrilling promise that they would see each other soon, trying at anything to prick Rachel from her silence. Baiting her by criticizing her old teammates' performances over the course of the evening, by promising Kurt and Blaine a double date once they were all back in the city, even by physically poking her when she refused to take a turn singing along to the radio. Only now, after she'd turned it off entirely, did he admit defeat.

He blew a breath. "At least tell me what I've done wrong."

"Are you kidding me?" she hissed - and then grimaced at herself. But since the gate had been opened, she let the bull loose. "You're going to pretend not to know after _that_? You must forget how well I know you, Jesse, because that was not an accident, that was a calculated attempt to make me feel as _horrible_ as possible, and after you claimed you weren't trying to make me feel guilty about this!"

"I wasn't!"

" _Don't_."

"I promise you, I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty. I was trying to stop it."

"Stop what? We were just dancing!"

Jesse scoffed. "You were practically making out."

"We were not!"

Not that, Rachel reminded herself, she hadn't wanted to. With Quinn so close, pinning her with those burning hazel eyes - God, it had been bad enough the moment Quinn stepped out of that prison, knowing that not only Quinn was free, but Rachel was, too. Free to hug her, to touch her. And being held by Quinn felt - like the moment Graham said those perfect three words all over again, as if Rachel was going to burst from too much feeling, too much joy. She'd been so prone to happy tears since that day she'd taken to carrying a packet of tissues with her.

"Well, she wanted to!"

"She did not," she countered weakly - because, had she?

For a moment or two, Rachel had thought she'd seen a flicker, a glance toward her lips the way she'd been staring at Quinn's, but - she couldn't trust her lovelorn mind. Then again, she couldn't exactly trust Jesse's judgment, either, knowing how his jealousy raged - though it did so for good reason.

"Right." He rolled his eyes, adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

Rachel had never seen him so dark, so tense. His body tightened like a coil, when it was usually so carefully lax.

She swallowed. "You know that I'm sorry."

The shift came almost too quickly, the way his shoulders dropped, his smile rose toward her.

"Let's talk about something else. I have some news."

This couldn't go on. It had gone on too long as it was. Jesse trying, straining to hold onto her in any way he could. Blocking her every attempt to speak the truth - that it was simply no use. Whether Quinn could love her again or not, Rachel's heart was no longer with Jesse. He had to have known it, of course. Whether from the way she screamed when Graham finished telling her the news that day on the phone, or from the way she spent every minute she wasn't fretting over what to wear to see Quinn singing at the top of her lungs, or from the way she _ran_ to Quinn that very morning - he had to have known that nothing and no one else could match the love she had for Quinn Fabray.

Rachel knew it. Knew it with all her heart now. But she couldn't blame him for holding on. She would have done the same. Hell, she was doing the same. Holding onto Quinn because she knew that she had once had her love, desperate to get it back.

Today had given Rachel back some of her hope, not only because Quinn was free and clear, but because the moment she was truly declared so, she didn't push Rachel away. She pulled her closer. And because 'I'd rather enjoy dancing with you.'

The very echo of the words gave her a shudder.

She would die if she lost that hope, that reason to shudder. She couldn't kill Jesse now, not yet, not like this. Not when he had nowhere to turn.

Rachel sighed. "Good news, I hope?"

#

Quinn woke to hoarse and incessant yipping. Of course, the dogs at the prison rarely barked, and their voices boomed with ferocity, never this yelping. This was the first clue to her sleep foggy mind that she wasn't where her body had become accustomed. It helped that she was warm under soft, floral-patterned blankets, and the sunlight was filtering in through gossamer curtains. She was - not home, but close. She might have fallen asleep all over again for the peace that offered her.

But then there was still the yapping, and the discomfort of her headphones bulging under her head. They'd gone askew, it seemed, since she had woken for a fifth time in a sweat, with no Carol to calm her before the worst of her nightmares, and hauled out her ages old laptop to upload the CDs onto her iTunes. Rachel's voice was reading her the twenty-sixth chapter of Wuthering Heights even now.

She paused the track and set it back to the beginning for tonight before she addressed the little demon at the door, opening it up a crack so Georgie could slip through. He took up sniffing at her feet immediately, but at least he had shut up, and so Quinn set about the business of readying herself for the day.

A long, hot shower, the first she'd had without the company of some dozen other strange women in months - though there was a little dachshund sitting on the toilet lid this time - was first on her agenda. Then, she dressed, with not a prison-issued garment to be found, though she borrowed an old, thick cardigan from her high school closet to prepare for the fall weather.

Finally, feeling fresh and calm with a well-made bed, her face made up, and Georgie clicking his nails at her heels, Quinn headed down the stairs toward the scent of breakfast, detouring away from the kitchen straight for the dining room. Plates were already set adjacent to each other at the head of the table, along with glasses of juice and a grapefruit at each spot. She feared her mother was going to drop the platter stacked high with waffles when she walked in.

"Oh, there you are!" she recovered with a smile, setting the platter carefully down. "I hope this is all right, I couldn't quite remember how you used to make those protein shakes."

"It's great," Quinn assured her genuinely, seating herself to prove it.

Judy sat hurriedly, flapping her cloth napkin over her lap.

"I, uh, forgot my dishes from last night, I'll just go - "

"No! I'll get them later, dear, don't worry."

Quinn sank back in her chair. The silence was punctured only by the occasional clink of silverware. Georgie napped between the two of them.

In the daylight, the house had at least lost its foreboding nature, allowing Quinn clear views into the adjoining rooms, though she skimmed past the kitchen without pause. The living room was just across the foyer, and, as with the dining room, everything looked exactly as it had been, except for the six or seven boxes stacked up on the coffee table.

"What are those for?"

Judy followed Quinn's gaze. "Oh. Well, I've been doing some organizing and, well, there are several things I'll no longer be needing...without your father and, well...the truth is, I've decided to sell the house."

Quinn's eyebrows popped. "Oh."

"It, well, the yard is too big for a woman like me to take care of by myself and, frankly, the housework is getting to be a bit much, too. Georgie and I don't need so much space anyway."

She drew a long breath before murmuring, "If this is about money - "

"Certainly not!" she squawked, gaze darting uncomfortably. "And besides, while your contributions to the family were and are appreciated, they were made in order to treat your father's illness and while you were financially able."

So that was it. Her mother was worried Quinn would be unable to support her now that her business had taken such a hit. There was no argument she could make, at the moment, not until she'd gotten back to New York and sussed out the situation. She had plenty in her savings to live comfortably herself, of course, but not to support the additional families she'd been lending help to, not even her own. The business had to continue making money for that to work.

Quinn sighed. "I'm going out today; is my bike still in the shed?"

"I believe so. Where are you going?"

"The police station, for starters, to see if I can get the bug back. Not to mention the things I had in it."

Judy was up before Quinn could go on, waving a hand in remembrance. A moment later, she returned with two slips of paper.

"Thank you for reminding me. When Detective Graham called me with the news, I had him help me obtain the voucher for your belongings. He also said you would need the vehicle registration at the impound lot."

Quinn smiled, folding the papers into her pocket. "Thank you, Mom."

Judy tapped her untouched glass. "Finish your juice."

#

"Ms. Fabray."

It had been four months, but Quinn was certain she would recognize that voice until the day she died. But this time when she turned toward Detective Graham, it was with a welcoming smile for the man who had done so much - for her and, she had learned, her mother.

"Detective," she greeted, and willingly offered her hand.

He shook it heartily, shining off-white teeth at her. "It's nice to see you again - hopefully under better circumstances?"

A wry smile tugged her lip. "Yes, I'm just picking up my stuff."

"Well, if you need any help - "

"I think you've helped me more than enough, Detective," Quinn interjected with half a laugh. "I practically owe you my life, and then some."

He waved his hands. "I just did my job."

"From what my mom tells me, you did more than that. You helped her. I'm grateful." She paused, eyeing his smiling blue eyes. "As a matter of fact, if there's anything I can do for you…"

A dusk entered his cheeks. "Well…actually. Your mother is...a fine woman."

Quinn laughed.

#

"Just so you know, when you're released from prison, you don't have to keep seeing your lawyer."

Quinn plopped herself down in the chair across from McCormack's long expanse of desk with a laugh. "It's nice to see you, too."

He indulged her with one of his slimy smirks. "What can I do you for now, Ms. Fabray?"

"Three things, actually. One, I have a favor to ask."

"Of course you do."

"There's an inmate, Carol Burns. I want you to look into her case. If there's any merit or possibility for an appeal, let me know and I'll pay the bill."

McCormack nodded, jotting briefly on a legal pad. He tossed down the pen. "The second thing?"

"I want to thank you," Quinn said earnestly. "For doing your best, even if - and when - I fought you on your methods. And I know, you were paid to do it, it wasn't a charity case. Which is actually the third thing." She chuckled, fishing out the check she had written back at the station and sliding it across the desk.

He snorted, eyed it, but pushed it back toward her. "Your bill is settled."

"I had one more month to pay," she protested.

He shrugged. "It's been taken care of."

"Not by me." Off his smirk, her eyebrow quirked. "Who?"

#

"Rachel's not here."

Quinn's stomach dropped. "Well, where is she? I have something for her."

Mr. Berry smiled kindly. "She and Jesse are headed back to New York. He got her an audition for a hush-hush production."

Back to New York. With Jesse.

"Actually, she went to find you before they left; obviously she missed you, but, she said to give you this if you came looking for her."

Quinn ripped open the envelope without a second glance at him.

' _Dearest Quinn,_

 _I don't even know how to begin. I realize this is terribly old-fashioned and dramatic, but I don't know if or when you'll have access to the modern day technology we've all become accustomed to, and you know how I love drama anyway._

 _I'll try to be brief. I have an extremely small window of opportunity to become the featured star in a famous composer's newest musical. It is so small, in fact, that I must leave today if I'm to have any chance of success._

 _I'm dying not seeing you first. The only thing carrying me through is the knowledge that you'll soon be in New York, too. For my heart's sake, please don't take too long._

 _I still love you._

 _Forever yours, Rachel_ '


	29. Moving

Steven M. Alper!

The euphoric revelation hit Rachel over the head with the same melodic ring as every time since Jesse had said the name last night. She could have sang it to the entire train, though fortunately she had a bit better control over her musical impulses since high school. Instead, the words made their refrain in her head: _In a few short hours, I will be working with Steven M. Alper!_

Granted, that wasn't entirely true. Mr. Alper himself wouldn't be appearing at the six am audition Jesse had managed to brag her into. And the audition itself would only be the first in a series, where she would meet only the casting director, discuss her previous projects, and likely sign a nondisclosure, if Jesse's insistence at the confidentiality of the production was at all true. Only if and when she passed this first hurdle would she meet the man himself.

The man who had, quite literally, written the book on auditioning for musical theater - a book Rachel had read 308 times to date. It would serve as her reading material again tomorrow, on the ride to the theater and between those horrid waiting periods. Her soundtrack would be The Immigrant original cast recording.

Of course, she had been listening to that on repeat since Jesse loaded the last of their belongings into the rental and started the first leg of their trip back to New York. The plane would have landed them back faster and allowed them a later start out of Lima, but Jesse had purchased one way tickets for the trip down - and the train ride offered Rachel a chance to research and sync herself with the works of Steven M. Alper. As it was, they still arrived back at their apartment by four o'clock, leaving her plenty of time for practice.

While Jesse settled their belongings, checked the mail, and prepared a healthy, light dinner with honeyed tea, Rachel shrugged off her coat and took to the piano for some rigorous warmups and runs. It was, for the first time in months, as if nothing had changed. As if their lives had somehow rewound to some year or so ago when Rachel was madly prepping for an audition for an off-Broadway Carnival! revival and they were madly in love and all they thought about was Broadway and each other. Jesse minded their world so that Rachel could focus mind, heart, body, and soul on nailing that key change.

The motions were the same, even throughout the quick meal they ate at the table. Discussion was rapid, intense, focused on one thing - _music!_

"You're sure a song from The Immigrant isn't too on the nose?"

"It would be for anyone else; you'll make it your own."

"Then I think it's between Keep Him Safe and Candlesticks."

"Are you sure you don't want to consider I Don't Want It?"

"I'd rather put my best foot forward; ballads are my power move."

"Well, you can definitely draw more from Candlesticks."

Then, as soon as the dishes were rumbling in the washer, Jesse coaxed the melody from the piano and coached the music from Rachel, over and over until it was nearing ten o'clock and he cautioned against straining her voice.

The motions were the same, but Rachel was not.

Nonetheless, she echoed words she had said many times before, though they were usually preceded by a kiss. She replaced that gesture with a squeeze to his shoulder. "Thank you for your help."

But once that was done, she rushed away and through her usual evening ritual, nabbed pillows and blankets from the hall closet, and sped back to the couch and, more importantly, her phone. It sat blinking on the coffee table, patiently awaiting her attention. Her heart leapt in her chest - a text! - her thumb swiped - but - her smile dropped. Kurt.

He had been courteous enough, to both her and Quinn, the day before. After Brittany and Santana absconded with Quinn, the rest of the group convened in the choir room to set up, decorate, and rehearse the Buckcherry number they had discussed, and Kurt assisted Rachel at every opportunity. Whether her height, as was often the case, put her at a disadvantage or she had difficulty with the choreography, he was there, shadowing her, stepping in to help.

With anyone else, Rachel might have guessed it was their way of making amends. With Kurt, she was well aware that he was intentionally putting himself in her way, knowing that she would eventually either blow up at him or simply fall back into their old routines. She hadn't given him the satisfaction of either response, of any response, really, for months - but he was as stubborn as she was. He wasn't going to give up.

She opened the text.

'Good luck tomorrow. Remember to take chances!'

The boy certainly knew how to put a song in her head, but Celine Dion would hardly do for an audition of this magnitude.

She dragged her thumb around the keys. He _had_ apologized to Quinn. Quinn had even accepted, if not forgiven, in the name of friendships like Kurt and Rachel's. Friendships forged years ago, in this tightknit group's infancy; friendships that had grown together, through thick and thin. Through breakups and makeups, high school and college, successful musicals and failed TV shows. Kurt was her Judy Garland, her Glinda, her Harold Arlen.

She _missed_ that.

Rachel blew out a breath and navigated away, to her email - she had one.

'Quinn Fabray - Until we meet again'

She tapped so rapidly the page reloaded thrice before she was able to settle in and read.

'Rachel,

You won't be surprised to know that I am overjoyed that you're back in New York, and with an audition, to boot. I would wish you luck, but you hardly need it. Please keep me posted.

I'll be staying in Lima longer than anticipated. My mother has decided to sell the house and she has no one else to help her move. I expect it will be no more than a month, but I will update you on our progress.

We have much to discuss.

Quinn'

Another _month?!_

Rachel forced down a scream. Screaming would not do her throat any favors, though it would satisfy her heart at that moment. A whole month more, if not longer! She was back at square one, away from Quinn, unable to see her, touch her, hear her voice, tell her how terrified she was that tomorrow would go poorly, that she was out of practice, that she would choke again, that the casting director wouldn't like her, that Mr. Alper wouldn't like her, that they would, but she wouldn't fit what they had in mind. Only this time it wasn't the penal system limiting her visits, restraining her to one day in thirty, it was Quinn herself.

And yet - how could she blame Quinn with a reason like that?

And - 'We have much to discuss.'

Waiting, waiting, waiting - Rachel was forever waiting for Quinn.

"What's wrong?" Jesse stood waiting at the end of the hall with arms folded across his bare chest, brow knit tightly over tired blue eyes.

"I'm not doing Candlesticks," she decided promptly, straightening.

"Keep Him Safe, then?"

"No. Something completely different. I don't want this to be another NYADA audition disaster."

He smiled gently, easing before her on the coffee table. "You're not going to choke, sweet."

"I played it safe. Kurt didn't."

"Right, and he didn't get in."

"But he finished the song. He owned it. Because he sang what he felt, not what was expected."

Jesse mulled this over, brushing his palm over his scruff. "So what do you feel, my sun and stars?"

Rachel dragged in a breath - then rushed out, "Evermore."

Silence. The light left his expression.

"A male solo from a movie remake," he scoffed. "You know, there's taking risks and then there's throwing the competition. Do you want this role or not?"

"Of course I do! I - "

"Then stick with Candlesticks. It's what we've prepared, it's what will get you this part." He stood and left her grasping for the last word. "Now let's go to bed."

"I'm sleeping out here."

That stopped him in his tracks. As if they hadn't slept separately the past few nights. But then, it was an easily overlooked request for him to stay on the couch in her father's apartment. Here, in their shared home - it caught his attention. He struggled with himself.

"Because I disagree with your song choice?"

"Jesse, you're not dense," she softened.

Again, he wrestled. "Maybe I am. Spell it out for me," he spat.

Rachel smoothed her nightgown over her knees. Now was not the time to bristle, no matter how her frustrations begged to be let loose. She had to be gentle, no matter how rough Jesse got while she splintered his heart into bits. She stood, to put them on an even keel.

"All right. If you insist on doing this now. After everything is said and done with the audition, whether I get the part or not, I'm moving out," she said plainly, evenly - at least, until that last bit, when his spite cracked into pain, and her voice cracked with it.

"Why?" The word barely made it out between his teeth.

"Because I'm in love with Quinn."

"You love _me_. You told me you did."

"And I do. But...not in the same way, anymore."

Jesse fisted his hair. "I never should have left. I never should have come back here."

"You couldn't have stopped it. Jesse...you know I'm sorry," she whimpered.

"Don't go. Don't move out. I'll-I'll go."

"Even if you did, it wouldn't be fair of me. I'm the one who did wrong, I'm the one who should leave."

It was a rare thing, to catch a glimpse of a Jesse St. James who wasn't putting on. One who wasn't full of swagger and confidence and drama. One who, even if he was feeling something real, wasn't exaggerating it. But here he was now, crying in front of her, declaring without ulterior motive, "I love you."

Rachel's heart ached and she lurched to hug him, but he wound away, out of reach of her arms. The bedroom door slammed shut. She sank into the couch's comforting embrace and, biting at her bottom lip, tugged off her engagement ring. It was over. She had finally done it. She was free.

'Is it wrong that I'm relieved?' she typed to Mercedes later, lying back in the dark of the living room with the blankets up to her nose. 'It feels wrong.'

'It's not. I felt the same way when I told Shane about me and Sam. It's not just being free. It's putting down all that guilt you've been carrying around.'

'Didn't you still feel so guilty you dumped Sam, too?'

'Yeah, but that was because I cheated. You haven't.'

'Physically.'

'Emotional cheating is trickier. But don't tell me you feel so bad you're not going after your girl now.'

Quinn, her girl. Rachel wriggled happily under the covers. 'Of course not. When she gets back from Lima, anyway. She emailed me saying she's going to be staying to help her mom move.'

'I swear you two are the only people I know who still use email to actually talk.'

She rolled her eyes fondly. 'It's an underrated form of communication. Anyway, thank you for listening.'

'Anytime, diva. But now you should get to bed for your big day, right?'

'Yes. I'm sorry. I know our chats have been kind of one-sided lately.'

'We'll talk about me next time. Get some rest!'

'Thank you, Mercedes. Good night!'

'Night, diva!'

Rachel set her phone aside on the coffee table and curled into the pillows. With only five and a half hours of sleep, no idea whether her coach would even leave the bedroom in the morning, and no clue which song she was going to sing, she was sure that her 'big day' was bound to go just perfectly.

#

'Darling Quinn,

I GOT IT!

I got the part and I owe it all to you! I only wish you'd been with me. I was a nervous wreck from the start, between practically no sleep and trying to decide on my audition song, but I took a risk and it paid off!

The production is still in development right now, but I'm going to be working personally with the writers, the lyricist, and the composer while they finalize the script and the music! I so wish I could tell you who the composer is! Or about the story, for that matter! I think you'll love it. They're already saying it's a shoe-in for Broadway! This could be my Tony ticket!

I'm sorry if I'm rambling, I just couldn't wait to tell you!

I'm also happy to be kept busy knowing I won't be seeing you as soon as I'd hoped. I miss you, but I understand. Or at least, I'm trying to be understanding. I love your loyalty, and I love your mother by extension of loving you, but I also want you to myself, immediately. You see my dilemma.

I'm also curious to find out what all we have to discuss?

Love, Rachel'

"Are you all right?"

Quinn lowered her laptop screen in reflex, peering over top of it to find her mother back from Georgie's morning walk. The little demon hopped up on the couch beside her and snuggled up to her leg.

"Yeah." She shook Rachel's dizzying smile from her vision and straightened. "Yes. I've been looking at ratings for the local real estate agencies. I'm thinking Cowan is going to be our best bet. I can set up an appointment before we get back to sorting."

Judy nodded. "All right."

Yesterday and the evening before it had been highly productive in regards to boxing up the upstairs, whether for the move, Goodwill, or the garage sale Quinn had taken the liberty of buying a permit for. Judy had already finished with the guest bedroom before Quinn's release, but she completed the master bedroom and bathrooms with her help. Quinn herself had only a little left of her treasures from high school saved, but she pared it down to a few boxes she would send to her loft, the rest to be sold or donated.

This still left her father's study, the entire downstairs, and the basement, but it was better to start the process of putting the house on the market, setting up the garage sale, and finding her mother the new, downsized house she wanted. Fortunately, Quinn already had someone lined up to help with the actual move.

"I also found some listings in the paper and online that you should look at later. They're one floor, two bedrooms, two baths. I looked at a couple of one bedrooms, too, but that's only if you don't want to keep a guest room anymore. The yards are manageable - unless you'd rather have no yard, and then we're looking at an apartment, or…"

"Or?" she prodded, sitting forward on her chair.

"Have you thought about going to live with Francine?"

Judy paused. "She's offered."

There was some relief in knowing her mother had said no. Francine and her family lived on the other side of the country, practically a world away; but Judy living with Quinn was...out of the question. Still. She grimaced.

"Would you want to live in New York?"

Her lips pursed. "Darling, I am not ancient _yet_. I can still manage perfectly well on my own."

Quinn couldn't restrain the slightest of smiles. "Yes, Mom."

"And I have moved before, you know. I am capable of finding a house and listing this one and setting up a garage sale and, yes, even hiring movers," she emphasized, already raising a hand to Quinn's opening mouth. "And yes, I know that you are trying to help, and I appreciate it. However, you have your own life to look to."

It was always difficult to argue with her mother, particularly when she actually spoke up for herself. And even moreso in this instance, when Quinn's motives weren't quite so pure as Judy was assuming. True, she was trying to help. But also true, she was trying to speed the process along to when she could finally - _finally_ be back in New York, with Rachel, celebrate this victory with her. Already her fingers were opening a new tab and finding flower delivery in the city.

Outwardly, she cleared her throat. "I know you're more than capable. I just want to make sure you'll be all right, before I leave you alone again."

Judy's mouth relaxed into a little smile. "I will be. I want you to be all right, too."

"Let me stay long enough to get everything packed. Then I'll go."

"It's a deal."


	30. Judy

**Judy**

The next week slogged on as if time itself was against Quinn's reunion with her life, with Rachel. Of course, it didn't help that on her morning runs she literally had to slog through muck and muddy leaves, if she was able to leave the house at all while storms punished the ground day after day. The gloom left her feeling as if she was floating along in an endless night, never to reach day again.

Despite that discouraging sensation, however, the time was not wasted. Quinn and Judy made excellent progress on the house between quiet meals and sleep. By the beginning of the second week at it, they had only her father's study, the kitchen, and the basement left to them, aside from the unboxable items - namely, the furniture and appliances. Granted, the mountain of boxes in the basement was hardly encouraging, no matter how neatly labeled and stacked a mountain it was, but at least, as her mother helpfully pointed out, they had only to sort what to keep, sell, or donate down here.

As it turned out, it was one of the most pleasant times Quinn could remember ever spending with her mother. They even sat on the floor in the cool, though on a plaid blanket, and played a crackling Fleetwood Mac record they'd found. While they sipped lemonade over sandwiches for lunch, Quinn flipped through her old baby album, skipping over the pages with her young father smiling up at her, and Judy sat with Francine's over her lap, a too rarely seen glow in her eyes.

"You look happy," Quinn offered with a breath, indicating a page of pictures dedicated the two of them at the hospital.

Judy glanced over and smiled widely. "I was a proud mama. Of both my girls."

She tapped a picture of Francine in a tutu, her first pre-ballet class at four. Quinn knew this, of course, because Judy had each photograph dated and described in pencil on the back. Even the names of Francine's grinning, pretty friends were noted. A proud, detailed mama.

Quinn's album lacked the variety Francine's had. There were no pre-ballet or swimming or horseback riding classes, and certainly no friends. Activities and friends didn't come until much later, and by then, the world had all but turned its back on concrete photography and turned digital.

Though, time hadn't made much difference for Francine. Even now, her Facebook page was littered with photos of her with a dozen different pretty, grinning women on hikes, eating brunch, at spas. Only now they were the ones pushing strollers.

Quinn's own public Facebook page was about as barren as her baby album, but the pictures on her phone - those were a different story. Filled with landscapes, cityscapes, sunsets, sunrises, beaches, and friends. Mercedes and Sam crouching by Aretha Franklin's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; Kurt, Blaine, Santana, Brittany, and Rachel acting out famous scenes on the Empire State Building; Mike from the train away from Chicago because he refused to let her take a picture of him while he was sporting a stress beard.

It sometimes boggled Quinn's mind to think of all the factors, all the choices that had led to a camera roll so full. Not only her transfer to McKinley and all that had come before it, but Finn - she never would have joined glee club without him - and Rachel - she never would have stayed in glee club without her. She never would have been successful without Rachel. Never had the courage or enough faith in herself to apply to Yale, of all places. And without Yale, she wouldn't have become the brilliant businesswoman she was today - or at least, had been, up until this summer.

She owed her happiness to Rachel, many times over.

"What did you want to be before?"

Judy started a fraction, then cleared her throat. "Before what, dear?"

"Before you were a mom. Before you married him." Off her mother's silence, Quinn prodded, "You applied to Arizona State, you even got in. You must've had dreams for yourself."

She twisted her necklace. "Well...back then, I wanted to be an artist."

Thinking of her mother covered in paint stains - Quinn struggled with a smile. "Really?"

Her fingers dropped the chain and she straightened with dignity. "Are you laughing at your mother?"

"I just can't imagine it."

Her sternness melted away as quickly as it had appeared. "I was a very different person then."

"What changed?"

"Many things," she tittered. "For one, I met your father."

"He made you want to stop?"

"No, of course not. I was in love; if anything, I was more inspired than ever," she smiled, and Quinn brushed her itching fingers together. Judy sighed, wistful. "We were engaged very quickly. He didn't want me to have to work, and my parents agreed. They came from a generation where college was simply for finding your future husband, and I already had that. So, I dropped out and...not long after we were married, I had Francine and then being a mother was my world."

Cautiously, Quinn pressed, "Do you regret it?"

"What, dear? Dropping out? Marrying your father?"

"All of the above?"

Judy smiled and tucked Quinn's hair behind her ear. "No. Look what I have to show for those choices. Two beautiful daughters."

"Right. A homemaker and an accused murderer," she pointed out hoarsely.

" _No_. A sweet, generous woman who has built a loving, happy family. And a young woman who has been to hell - " Quinn raised her eyebrows " - and back time and again, still strong, independent, and brilliant following every trip. I could not be prouder," she retorted fiercely, softening only when she added, "And neither could he, dear."

Quinn cleared her throat. "I doubt that. Anyway, I only asked because I thought maybe now might be the time for you to pursue the dreams you left behind."

"I didn't leave them behind, dear. My dreams simply changed, as they do. You ought to know, you wanted to be a doctor when you were little." She tapped the Halloween picture open on Quinn's lap, a little blonde in a white coat and round glasses, smiling sideways at the camera.

She closed the album. "So what's your dream now?"

Judy paused, mouth uncharacteristically open. "Well - why are you so interested?"

"I told you, I want you to be all right when I leave."

"Darling, while there is a point in life when the child takes care of the parent, I am not quite that old yet."

"I'm not suggesting I should, I'm only trying to - " Quinn gritted her teeth, puffed. "I know you think it's impolite to talk about, but frankly, until I know what shape my business is in, I can't offer financial assistance to you and, if you have to have a job to get by for the time being - " Already, she grimaced at herself and, whispering, confessed, "What I mean to say is...you just told me yourself that you've never been on your own. And while I don't doubt that you can do this...it doesn't stop me from worrying about you. And your happiness. Just. If you need my help, in any way, please tell me."

Judy adjusted on the blanket, quiet so long Quinn counted Georgie's breaths. Then, finally, "Very well. You know that we were in dire straits before you assisted us, but I've since received payment on his life insurance policy. I had to use much of it to cover the funeral costs, but it should be enough for me to get by until I...find my new dream. I will let you know if I need further assistance." She eyed Quinn. "And I love you, too, Lucy."

She rifled her thumb through the pages on her lap. "I thought Francine hated horses."

Glancing down at the picture of the proud five-year-old offering a carrot to a brown horse, Judy smiled. "Oh, she does now."

The conversation had eased back into careful reminiscing and quiet laughter by the time Quinn's phone buzzed, waking Georgie with a start, and she promptly gathered their dishes to transport upstairs. Just as she finished rinsing them in the bathroom sink, the doorbell rang. Graham hunkered in the doorway in slacks and a polo shirt splattered with rain, in such a far cry from his usual confident demeanor in that stiff uniform that Quinn came dangerously close to being amused.

"Hello - he's not screaming," Graham noted, eyebrows raising at the Dachshund by her feet.

"A vast improvement, no? Come in, we're working down in the basement."

Before he had his second shoe off, Judy announced her approach, "Quinn, is someone at the door? Detective Graham!"

He straightened sharply. "Mrs. Fabray."

They were both so pink Quinn couldn't help but smile now. "Detective Graham was gracious enough to offer his assistance when we saw each other at the station the other day, so I said a good, strong man was just what you needed."

Judy went owl-eyed. Graham almost choked.

"This was the first day off I could spare to come by, I hope that's all right."

"Perfectly! Let me get you some lemonade!"

Judy scurried off toward the kitchen, Graham in pursuit, both pink and awkward as two teenagers. Cute. Adorable, even.

Quinn dug her phone from her skirt pocket. Rachel's next email would undoubtedly arrive late tonight, as per usual, but there was no harm in rereading the most recent update on the mysterious musical while her mother indulged in her own romantic excursion. It was the closest Quinn could get - for now.

'Angel, for that's what I've decided you are,

I cannot thank you enough for the bouquet! It's gorgeous! I've been keeping it on the piano so it's always close by while I'm practicing at home.

Not that I'm home very often right now! I feel as if the creative team has truly taken me under their wing with this project, and I've learned more in the past week than I did in a year at NYADA. Not to knock NYADA at all, but there's something about actually working with the best on brand new material, rather than merely studying or performing their old work!

They still haven't found anyone they like for the other lead, but we can't delay any longer. Soon we'll have everything wrapped up and the rest of the auditions can begin! They even want my input on some of the casting!

It's like a dream, Quinn, everything falling into place - everything except for you. I know I have said this with every message, but I feel it with every breath. I miss you. This emailing back and forth is nice, but it's hardly a replacement for you, your pretty face and your lovely voice.

It's funny the things I've realized I adore about you in all the time I haven't been allowed to see you. Your voice is at the top of the list.

How is the packing going? Are you still making steady progress?

Love always, Rachel'

#

Rachel's life had become as busy as it had been empty in just a few short weeks. In a single day, even, mostly thanks to the abrupt audition process. Usually these things came in stages, a day of auditions in which one was given no indication of success or failure, then callbacks upon callbacks until the final picks battled it out and the role was finally awarded. It was never so easy as two auditions in the same day with the very creators of the story saying, "You are exactly what we're looking for."

But it had happened, and it was where 'easy' ended. From then on, Rachel was living the life she'd only planned to vacation from for a wedding.

At six am, an hour on her elliptical followed by a shower, makeup application, and outfit lineups; then breakfast while she caught up on entertainment news until eight am, when she met with her vocal coach, followed by her dance teacher. Then a quick lunch before she headed to the studio to meet with the brilliant minds who had put together her musical. It was often nearing eleven o'clock before she even left, after hours of brainstorming and singing, primarily about her character, though the group sometimes used her as a sounding board for other ideas.

Only after all that could Rachel tend to the tedious task of packing her belongings, mainly consisting of music and clothes, though that was partly due to the fact that she was leaving behind anything belonging to _them_. Furniture, appliances, kitchenware, cleaning supplies, the piano - it was only fair to leave them to Jesse and buy new for herself, after all she had already done to him.

She barely saw him, and not only due to her schedule. He seemed to spend most of his time locked away in the bedroom, and when she was packing, he left, returning long after she'd fallen asleep on the couch. It was the best arrangement, in a way. She couldn't keep hurting him by telling him things he didn't want to hear, that she had found an apartment with a wonderful studio space to live in, that it was only two blocks from Quinn's loft - and he couldn't choke her with guilt, intentionally or not.

Of course, where Rachel was glad of Jesse's absence, she was miserable over Quinn's. Being busy should have kept her from dwelling, she knew, but every moment was spent resisting the urge to pick up her phone, to read Quinn's daily email. By the time she allowed herself to do so, and to answer it, it was always so late in the evening she had no willpower left to keep from waxing poetic, though Quinn, if she minded, never made it known. But then, she never made much known, and so Rachel practiced at reading between every line:

'Rachel,

There was never any doubt that you would thrive, once given the chance to do so, and I am so glad you have the opportunity now, that they recognize your talent. You're a true ingenue now.

I hope that you can share more about this project with me soon.

Packing is coming along well. We have all but the study packed upstairs; downstairs, the kitchen. There's also the basement, but we've made a dent in sorting that out today. Things should move faster now that we have another pair of hands, too; I'm sure you remember Detective Graham. As it turns out, he has a particular fondness for my mother. He's signed on practically the entire LPD to help her move, when the time comes. She'll be in capable hands when I come home.

Quinn'

It was sorely tempting to double check her interpretations with Kurt, as she used to do when her boyfriend did or said something incomprehensible, or with Mercedes, since she had a talent for recognizing Quinn's meaning above her words. But the idea of sharing these private conversations with anyone, even her (ex) best friend? Unthinkable. So Rachel was left to trust her own judgment, to read that:

'Rachel, I am so proud of you and I never had any doubt that you would be successful. I am dying to hear more about the musical and your role in it. I was worried about leaving my mom alone, but now that Graham is helping her, I can rest easy.'

It was this middle message that kept Rachel going, that kept her from hopping the next train back to Lima, forget New York, forget the new apartment, forget the musical. Quinn was proud, and happy, and coming home. Not yet, but soon.

Until then, Rachel had to focus on her life and the next email. She had to focus on practice, practice, practicing into the best performer she could possibly be. She had to focus on this performance, the performance of a lifetime, and perfecting this character she was helping to mold. She had to focus on moving into her new home.

It was slow-going. The landlord handed over her keys on a Wednesday, and Rachel spent the following three days living off of takeout food, out of a suitcase, and on an air mattress. Mr. Alper and the rest insisted on a break for the weekend - primarily because the following week would begin the next phase of production: filling in the rest of the cast and crew - and so she had time to begin the move - alone.

Rachel had never truly been on her own. Even straight after high school when she lived with a nymphomaniac in the NYADA dorms, she had been with _someone_. Then Kurt came along with the loft, and they filled it with so many friends it was practically a community living space. In LA, she had stayed in a castmate's guest house. And when she finally moved back to New York, it was to Elliott's place, then to Jesse's, then to a place of their own. And each and every move was assisted by friends or family or both.

Now she was moving, on her own, to live by herself.

Mercedes, of course, pointed out the obvious during their weekly video chat, asking why she didn't just hire movers, but Rachel had never been terribly comfortable with the idea of her personal belongings being handled by strangers.

"Besides, it's a good kind of terrifying, this being on my own thing," she decided happily. "Like an unexpected solo opportunity the minute before a competition."

"You're thinking about Don't Rain On My Parade again, aren't you?"

"A Blu-Ray and DVD copy of that performance will be included in the back flap of my biography."

Mercedes chuckled. "I never thought I'd say this, but it's nice seeing you all bubbly and self-promoting again. I'm sure Kurt and Santana would feel the same way…"

Rachel shook her head violently. "I am not ready for that. At least in Lima, you and Sam and everyone else who didn't immediately decide Quinn was a vicious killer was there. Here, there's no buffer. It would just be me and the five of them."

"Five?"

"I'm counting Santana's snark as a separate person."

Mercedes grinned pearly whites at her. "Then just ask Kurt and Blaine. Face the threesome later."

With a puff, she conceded, "I'll think about it."

When Saturday morning came, however, all Rachel could bring herself to type to Kurt was, 'Thank you, I got the part.' Then, she headed off to her old apartment for the first load of boxes and quite forgot about everything else but navigating through New York traffic until dinnertime, when Quinn's email usually arrived in her inbox.

Kurt had texted her back, she noted, saying, 'Mercedes told me, congratulations! What's the role?'

Rachel ignored it for the time being. Quinn's email, as expected, waited - but it only contained four words.

'Rachel,

I'm home.

Quinn'


	31. Reunited

Quinn had lived in many homes in her short lifetime. Finn's, as a wolf lurking on the edges of a campfire, watching those around it laugh and love while she lurked in the cold. Puck's, like an ice storm. Mercedes', as a wounded thing brought in from the cold, tenderly cared for, but a misplaced guest nonetheless. Her family's, with the other wolves. And since she had gone off to Yale, she wandered from place to place, dorm room to studio to apartment, but she kept herself too active to grow attached to the walls that surrounded her while she slept. Then there was the prison, of course, her cage.

The loft had come closest to feeling like a home to her, buried in the heart of the city that never slept, forever as wild and ambitious as Quinn herself. As wild and ambitious as Rachel. The very sight of the skyline from the descending plane settled an unease that had persisted since she purchased her ticket the night before. No matter what awaited her in her personal life, New York would never change.

On Monday, Quinn would have to be focused. Monday, she would have to go back to her business and deal with the damage Lima inevitably thundered through her life. But for now, this weekend, she could indulge herself in the rhythm of New York City.

Though Ubers were a more popular option nowadays, and she had even taken one to the airport from Lima, she hailed the iconic yellow taxi cab for the ride to her favorite coffee shop. She had, of course, had a small breakfast with her mother early that morning, before they said their quiet goodbyes, but the moment she caught a whiff of arabica beans brewing in the airport Starbucks, she simply had to have a taste of good old New York coffee. It was so rich she nearly spat her first sip back out.

Then, in lieu of another ride separated from the world outside, Quinn melded into the passing crowds, among her own kind, charging ahead, though today she took care to note flour rising from the grates of a bakery, a busker popping his bongos, the rare scent of nature emanating from a flower stand. As much detail as she could soak in, in the city that overwhelmed the senses.

And, nose numb in the blistering cold, but smiling, she emailed Rachel, though she hadn't even arrived at her building yet. Quinn didn't expect a response, obviously. Rachel was far too busy to answer until late at night, sometimes into the next morning, with this project, but simply reaching out centered her.

Though her cheeks were pleased enough with the sting of warmth when she entered her building, her ears already missed the cacophony of the outdoors, the constant noise to which she had become accustomed in the past few months. Even in her mother's house, there was always the click of Georgie's nails or Judy stirring in another room. There was the presence of life.

Her loft was empty.

There was no greeting applause or ridiculous serenade or yipping dog when Quinn opened the door at long last. Nothing except her own sounds, the wheels on her suitcase, the door clicking shut. Her breath.

But, empty as it was, it was…well, clean. She drew her fingertips along the island counter. No dust. The hardwood floor shone under her boots. The curtains were pristine white. Even her bed was neatly made, as if hotel service had come through. As if she'd been gone only the week she'd intended when she booked her ticket to Lima. As if she'd never left.

There was, of course, only one explanation: Rachel. Yet another act of kindness she had snuck in while Quinn wasn't looking. She should have known.

With nothing else to tend to, she freed herself of heavy winter garments, unpacked her suitcase, started a batch of wash, and booted up all her technology to catch up on updates, all the while making note of the things she would need to pick up from the store tomorrow. Food was definitely the number one necessity. Rachel had evidently rid her of all the things that would have soured by now anyway, and Quinn could only survive on the remains for a couple of days without takeout to stretch the use of the two cans of soup and packet of spaghetti.

For the time being, while she waited for the old laptop she'd brought from her mother's to run and the rest to update, she put in a call to Diane.

"Are you - "

"Yes, I'm at my loft now."

"Thank God. I was beginning to think you'd never leave that hillbilly town."

"Listen, I'm taking the weekend to settle things, but I want you and Ellen ready to deliver a complete briefing on Monday morning."

"Consider it done. There is something you should give some thought to before we meet, however; we've received dozens of calls from various media outlets wanting an opportunity to interview you."

Quinn rolled her eyes back. It had been fairly easy dodging the press following her release in Lima. Rod Remington was easily persuaded that a nuisance lawsuit concerning trespassing wasn't the cherry he wanted on top of his sexual harassment suit pie. As in every other way, New York was a different ballpark, though at least the names Diane was listing were legitimate news companies and not just paparazzi trash rags.

"Decline all but the one with Wall Street Journal."

"I don't advise you to be hasty about this. While you certainly shouldn't take all of them, a select handful could give the company an advertising boost you couldn't buy."

"That would be a great strategy if the company was what they wanted to talk about."

"You are the company."

"Not necessarily a good thing, Diane."

"Look, the tide is turning. The decline has been tapering off since the charges were dropped. If we act quickly, we can capitalize on the win and revitalize your reputation. These interviews could prove to be a perfect avenue for that, but the offers won't last long."

The companionship of a voice in the silence of the loft was turning its own tide, back into an annoyance. Quinn paced.

"I need to think about this."

Diane's sigh crackled through the line. "All right. Get some rest, we'll talk on Monday."

"Bye."

Diane was an excellent strategist. It was part of the reason Quinn hired her. Still, she needed to see numbers, facts, results before she plunged into public relations. In the long run, no one remembered the acquitted, the dropped charges. They remembered the guilty, the accusations. Utilizing the media could be a bandaid solution to the wrong problem. But she wouldn't know anything for sure until Monday.

In the meantime, Quinn busied herself transferring files from her high school laptop to her current one, weeding out what she had no use for, and catching up on her investments, though there was far too much information from the last few months to change or improve anything today. Still, it occupied her mind, took it away from her business and those finances, away from the pervading silence, away from checking her email over and over until an email from Rachel finally appeared.

The rain helped, too, when it started its rhythmic pattering on the glass. Quinn heated up some tomato soup to sip at while she watched it pour from her suede chaise lounge. There was always something soothing about a thunderstorm, something that filled her head, allowing no other thoughts.

Too many thoughts had plagued Quinn since her childhood. Many a night she would wander into her parents' bedroom, whining that she couldn't sleep. Her mother would always rise, stumbling, and carry her downstairs to make up some warm milk and honey. Then she'd settle Quinn in her lap in the rocking chair, tucking a thick blanket around her, and read to her until she fell asleep herself. Quinn would close her eyes and listen to her mother's steady heartbeat.

But there was one night her father rose instead. He'd had no choice, with her mother off to visit her sister in California and Quinn persistently tugging at his nightshirt until he blinked his eyes at her.

"I can't sleep," she'd repeated.

"It's just a little rain, Lucy, it'll be all right in the morning," he'd yawned.

"It's not the rain," she'd insisted.

"Then what's the matter?"

She'd pointed to her head.

"You have a headache?"

She shook her head. "It won't turn off."

He smiled and scooted over, patting the space next to him. She curled up in the warm spot he left behind, hugging her stuffed lamb to her chest.

"Listen close, Lucy."

She waited, looking up at him expectantly. He said nothing.

"Daddy?"

"Shh."

The thunder roared like a tiger. The wind howled like a wolf.

"Quinn, wake up!"

She woke panting, hot, to Rachel's worried face so close she could feel her breaths.

Rachel, in her loft.

Quinn's hands shook.

"Rachel…what…"

"I'm here," she soothed, her fingers in Quinn's hair. "Are you okay?"

Tender, Rachel was so tender, soft, and real. Fragments of dreams forgotten, Quinn lunged for reality, squeezing Rachel into her arms, and Rachel was not long to return it, arms sliding up around her neck while she burrowed into Quinn's hair. And they were alone. No Jesse St. James to glare, no mother to interrupt or friends awaiting attention. Just Quinn and Rachel.

Quinn didn't just breathe her in, didn't just soak her warmth, she drowned in her.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asked again after a few moments, muffled in the depths of their embrace.

"I am now."

Rachel's arms pulled tighter, but she leaned her head back until their gaze locked again. Quinn smiled freely at those searching, wide brown eyes - and no amount of lip biting could keep Rachel from grinning, it seemed.

There was so much to say. Quinn was brimming with thoughts, with things she had thought to say when she was alone and anticipating this moment - but now it was here. Rachel was here in front of her. They were together again, holding onto each other freely. And Quinn was too breathless to speak, to do anything but memorize Rachel. Her thick hair was damp from the drizzling rain, her cheeks pink from cold, or perhaps from their snuggling and the indoors and - Rachel was in her loft.

"How did you get in here?" she chuckled.

Rachel's gaze darted away. "I, um, may have kept that copy of your key. I didn't know whether you wanted me to give it back to Diane or leave it here or what, so I just sort of held onto it, which, really, was a good thing, after all, because I wouldn't have been able to get to you otherwise and I could hear you crying out and I just about had a panic attack thinking you were hurt, or-or something." She gnawed on her lip, flushing and digging in her coat pocket to produce the bronze key in her palm. "Anyway. While it was very useful today, I'll understand if you want it back now."

Quinn folded Rachel's fingers over. "Keep it."

She traced her thumb over Rachel's knuckles, darkening the pink already settling in her dimpled cheeks.

"You're giving me a key to your apartment?"

"Technically I already did," she drawled. "Now I'm just making sure someone I trust has a key in case of emergencies."

Quinn couldn't remember the last time she had seen Rachel's eyes so bright. Certainly, when she visited her at the prison, she'd sparkled, and glowed when they danced together, but there was something now - something more. Before Quinn could puzzle it out, Rachel's fingertips delicately prodded at her cheekbone.

"Your bruise looks a lot better," she murmured.

Quinn's lashes fluttered under the touch, but her gaze caught something curious beyond Rachel. Her eyes snapped open and her infamous brow quirked.

"Did you bring me a baguette?"

Rachel laughed in realization, and Quinn was quick to follow when she retreated to retrieve the bulging paper grocery bag by the door.

"I did, actually, but I also brought you," she set the bag ceremoniously on the island, "dinner! Well, and some basic groceries to tide you over. Unless you've already been shopping - I realize you got home a while ago, but I didn't see your email until I was just about to order myself some dinner, and then, well, there was no time to waste. In any case, if you've already been shopping, consider these backup groceries and, if you've already had dinner - have you had dinner?"

Quinn shook her head, too warm to speak.

Rachel breathed in relief. "Good, because I'm making you a hot, homemade meal for your first night home."

"You don't have to do that."

"Well, I want to," she insisted, busily separating out ingredients and a bottle of red. "I'll even make it and leave if that's what you want, but you deserve to have a nice dinner your first night back. And I know, your mom has probably made you plenty of home cooked meals since you've been out, but that was Lima. This is New York, and New York is my territory."

There was nothing quite as wonderful as seeing Rachel in her element.

Quinn reached for the cutting board. "Well, at least let me help."

"Ah-ah! No!" Rachel swatted her hand away, scooting the board out of reach. "You don't help make your own celebratory welcome home dinner. Go relax."

"Rachel - "

"Sit. Down."

Quinn puffed. "You are really bossy, you know that?"

For a moment, Rachel looked as though she was about to launch into one of her infamous tirades - but then she caught Quinn's smirk.

She was smiling again when she returned, "Yes. Now stop pestering me, I'm busy."

With purpose, she shrugged off her winter coat, slung her hair up into a pony, and took out a sauce pan. There was no one quite like Rachel Berry. Quinn caught her wrist, and Rachel sighed up at her.

"I mean it, I want to do this - "

"Thank you."

Rachel floundered until her jaw clicked shut, nodding compulsively until Quinn smiled and withdrew to her bedroom. A beautiful woman was cooking for her; it was simply proper etiquette to make herself presentable. After a quick, hot shower, she dried out her hair, applied a light layer of makeup, and dressed in a dark floral piece that hung off her shoulders. The timing was near perfect.

The table was already set, two steaming plates across from each other at her dining table, each with its own modest glass of wine, lit candles in the center. The stereo buzzed with soft classical music. And Rachel swayed at the sink, rinsing dishes and humming.

Quinn's fingers itched so she almost sought a pad of paper just to jot down this memory, this perfect image of Rachel in her kitchen. This thing that was never going to happen, but like so many things with Rachel, somehow had anyway.

She cleared her throat. "Ready to eat?"

Rachel dropped the serving spoon she'd been scrubbing with a clang. "W - yes," she sprang forward, adjusting her top and her composure, "I hope you like it!"

Quinn stared down at the pile of leaves next to the steaming noodles sprinkled with red and green flecks. "It smells good…what is it?" she chuckled.

"Pumpkin penne! I know it doesn't really go with the wine, but I thought it was appropriate given the season," she explained. "It's a vegan recipe, of course, but don't worry, it's nothing weird. It's just got pumpkin - obviously - onions, sage, broth, and cashews and uh, the salad has beets, mushrooms, shallots, kale, avocado, and matzo."

"It's great," she reaffirmed, the tentative bites she'd taken convincing her taste buds of the fact. "Thank you."

Rachel smiled quickly, twirling her fork.

"Did you work today?"

"No, actually, um, I have this weekend free. They wanted to take a short breather before they move on with the rest of the casting next week."

"You, taking a breather. Is that what's making you so fidgety?" she teased.

Rachel dropped her fork, reddening. "No. It's - well, the first email you sent to me, you said we had a lot to discuss, and then you proceeded to ignore it when I asked what you wanted to talk about, so I guess I'm just trying to figure out how to ask without making you…"

"Making me what?"

"Uncomfortable, upset, on guard, avoidy?"

Quinn's lip twitched. "Avoidy?"

"I know it's not a word, I just don't know how else to describe it. It's just…what you do, and don't say you don't, because you're doing it right now."

"I'm not," she returned, straightening in her seat. "But we do have a lot to talk about. Starting with you paying my lawyer without my knowledge."

Rachel couldn't seem to settle on an expression, but at length folded her arms. "I - what's to talk about?"

"Well, I'd at least like to know why," she chuckled.

She gnawed at her lip. "You mean, other than the obvious?"

Quinn dipped her chin once. "Yes."

"I had just been to see you, you were hurt, I was desperate to get you out. Mr. McCormack said he would try, but that he was on your retainer, so he couldn't do anything you wouldn't let him. So, I gave him the freedom to do whatever it took." She paused. "Are you mad?"

"No. I'd like to pay you back."

"I don't want your money, Quinn."

"Consider it a thank you."

"An actual thank you would do fine."

"I do thank you."

"See?" Rachel smiled.

She sighed, leaning back. "And what does Jesse think of your generous donation?"

"He doesn't know. We never shared a bank account or anything, so it was my money, my business."

'Shared.' Past tense. It caught Quinn's attention - and eyebrow - like a fish hook.

"Shared, meaning you do now?"

Rachel raised her hand from her lap, wiggling an empty ring finger. Quinn blinked twice to be sure it wasn't a mirage, an illusion of wishful thinking.

"I left him. Shortly after we got back," she confirmed, dropping her hand.

"That was weeks ago." Relief battled with the sting of it. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to tell you in person," she soothed.

Quinn couldn't exactly argue with that, considering what she had failed to tell Rachel in those weeks. For some things, there was no replacement for in person.

"Well…are you…okay?"

"Yes. I found a nice little apartment about two blocks from here. Moving is a work in progress, but I got a lot done today." She smiled, proud.

"Do you need any help?"

"I - " Rachel squirmed. "I want to say yes, but…I don't know if it's a good idea."

She nodded. "Because of Jesse."

"Yes. I don't know how he's handling everything, but I'm guessing…since I practically haven't seen him since the night I told him I was leaving? Not well." She twisted her sleeves. "I don't know how he would react or what he would do if he saw you there."

"I understand. But if you need anything else…"

Reality kept on bending. Quinn no longer envied Jesse St. James; in fact, she pitied him. Losing Rachel was something she had never had to endure, but she knew the cold that came with not having her love. So cold that warmth hurt. Hurt so badly you couldn't stand to be around it. Now here Quinn was, basking in it like she never had before under Rachel's loving eyes.

They darted away.

"Quinn, I…I did something else, while you were…"

The words stopped, as though it had taken all of Rachel's courage just to say that much and now she was sapped.

"You don't have to tell me," she tried.

"No, I do. I want to be honest with you." She drew a breath. "While I was here…I was just going to grab a few dresses and go, I swear."

Quinn's pursed lips drew into a smile. "You don't have to apologize for cleaning my loft, Rachel."

"But that's not all I did." Another breath. Rachel tugged her sleeves over her thumbs. "You left your laptop on the nightstand, so I moved it, just to dust it. But then I saw the wedding invitation and, and the flash drive."

She couldn't seem to get breath fast enough now, but Quinn didn't need the rest to know. Rachel had seen the invitation, the rejection, and she'd had to know what changed Quinn's mind about attending the wedding. Had to know so badly she plugged in the USB and dug through it for answers.

"I'm so sorry, Quinn," she begged raggedly, already on the verge of tears.

Rachel knew.

"Please don't hate me."

It had been so safe all these years. Not a soul knew. The only proof was in that flash drive, hidden in a box of keepsakes, wrapped in the baby blanket Finn had given her so long ago. It was Quinn's secret, hers alone to tend to, to guard, to nurse until it was no longer an infected gash, but a scar, pink and tender, still hidden under bandage and cloth.

Now it had been ripped open and Rachel stared at it with watery, pleading eyes.

Quinn's natural instinct was to hiss and recoil. But Rachel had never been scared away by that little show of ferocity, and now - she loved Quinn. Knowing all her flaws, her hatred of vulnerability, the way Quinn knew Rachel's dogged curiosity.

"I don't hate you."

Rachel sobbed relief. Quinn rose, traversing the small distance the table put between them, and dragged her thumb along the trails her tears had left behind. Her touch didn't have the desired effect, however - at least at first. Rachel closed her eyes, squeezing out more tears as she leaned into her palm.

"Please don't cry," Quinn murmured.

"I was so afraid you would never trust me again."

"C'mere." She jerked her head, pulling Rachel to her feet, grasping hands. "It's my turn to be honest."

Rachel's attention was effectively caught. "About what?"

Her turn. She'd had to wait weeks for the time to come. There had been so many obstacles. Her mother's transition from their old home. Jesse St. James. Geography. That was all over. There were no more excuses. Nothing in Quinn's way. She smiled, curling a stray strand of brunette hair behind Rachel's ear.

"How I feel about you."

Those bright brown eyes lit up inside, like candles in the dark, but she swallowed, restraining herself. "What do you mean?"

Quinn pinned her gaze. "I mean, I want to be with you."

Rachel clutched her hands tighter, grinning ecstatically, but again, she paused, restrained. "What happened to 'we can't work' and 'I'm not what you need'?"

"I was in prison. I'm not anymore. I'm free to live my life now, and I want that life to include you."

Quinn smiled, and evidently, that was all Rachel could take, for she swung her arms around Quinn's neck and kissed her.


	32. Heaven

**Heaven**

If nearly losing Quinn to a car accident was Hell, this was Heaven. Quinn kissing her, Quinn holding her, Quinn running her fingers into her hair, loosening her ponytail and sending the tie to unknown regions just so she could do it some more. That hair tie could have dropped into a portal to Narnia and Rachel wouldn't have known or cared. She wasn't in the loft anymore, or even in New York City. She was in heaven and Quinn was her god.

Rachel worshiped her with reverent hands in her silky hair and along the long, bare expanse of her neck and shoulders. She'd been eyeing all this skin since Quinn came out of her bedroom in the exposing dress. To finally touch - it was not a disappointment, to say the least. Rachel wanted to lick her.

"You're _so_ soft," she heard herself whisper, and a new kind of heat flooded her cheeks.

But Quinn was smiling against her mouth. "You taste really good."

Rachel felt red from head to toe. It was impossible to suss out whether it was more from embarrassment or arousal. "It's the wine."

"It's _you_ ," she insisted in a growl that decidedly placed Rachel's redness in the arousal category and she just had to kiss Quinn again.

Who knew it would feel this good? Who knew it _could_ feel this good?

Rachel was hyper aware of Quinn's lithe form lining her own body. Every time Quinn took a breath between long drags on Rachel's lips pressed her breasts further against Rachel and sent a jolt straight down to her core. At one point, they were so close Rachel swore she could feel the muscle tone in Quinn's stomach. She soaked it all in like a desert finally receiving a droplet of rain.

Rachel was halfway to begging - or dragging, she wasn't sure which yet - Quinn to bed. But she scolded herself. This was their first kiss, first date - sort of, first night. This was their moment, and she would not ruin it by making it all about sex. Even if Quinn's hands on her back were driving her mad and the way she was sucking on Rachel's bottom lip was utterly divine.

Quinn popped loose with a smirk. "Rachel, I'm kind of trying to do something here, it would help if you paid attention."

Rachel couldn't quite contain a giggle staring at those playfully sparkling eyes, that smile, Quinn's voice tickling her cheeks. She smoothed her hands down that velvet line of Quinn's neck, reveling in the way she shuddered.

"I'm sorry, I'm here," she assured, pecking Quinn's red, red lips.

But Quinn didn't take the invitation, she only smiled and drew lazy lines along Rachel's spine - as if that was going to help her focus!

"What are you thinking about?" she prodded, gently.

The flush returned with a vengeance. Quinn eyed her knowingly, that eyebrow popped up. That didn't particularly help.

"Just…that I want this night to be perfect."

"You're here, it's perfect," Quinn breathed into a kiss, and Rachel whimpered.

That was just about the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her, and it occurred to her that Quinn never would have said it before now. Rachel had known Quinn for almost ten years and only now did she get the sense that she was meeting _Quinn_. Not the impervious head cheerleader or the withdrawn pregnant girl or the passive aggressive frenemy or even the sweet friend, close as she had been. But then, which one had loved her? Which one had thought such romantic things, but wouldn't have said them in a million years? Was she even allowed to ask?

There was only one way to find out.

"When did you love me?"

Rachel's ears flamed. For a moment, she was certain she had ruined everything. Quinn stopped talking, stopped sparkling, practically stopped _moving_. And when she did move, it was away from Rachel, and she nearly cried out an apology until Quinn grasped her hand and led her to the plush couch, abandoning their plates at the table.

"Listen, you have to understand," she said, tugging Rachel down across from her. Rachel mirrored her position, one leg tucked to face each other properly. "It's not as if it happened all at once. I…grew into it."

Rachel nodded quickly, scooting herself closer, until their knees met. She curled her fingers between Quinn's. "I understand."

Quinn's smile was more of a grimace, and Rachel petted her thumb reflexively.

"You don't have to tell me."

"No, I…" Quinn breathed deliberately. "I will. It's just hard for even me to understand sometimes. I'm not the person I used to be and trying to remember why I did some things…"

"I understand how you mean," Rachel offered up eagerly, at the ready to soothe Quinn's fears. "For instance, at the time, it made perfect sense to me to send Sunshine Corazon to an inactive crack house, but now?" She shuddered at herself. "Now I wonder why you all didn't have me committed as a danger to myself and others."

Quinn's grin was entirely worth it. "Well. I was hardly innocent myself." She dragged in another slow, purposeful breath. "Especially since I had been attracted to you from the moment we met."

It was clear from everything Quinn did, from the way she peered up at Rachel from beneath her lashes, breathless and shameful, that she was taking this very seriously, which meant, of course, that Rachel should, too. Only she was so delighted by the fact that not only had Quinn Fabray, the most gorgeous being on earth, admitted to being attracted to her, Rachel Barbra Berry, but she admitted to _always_ being attracted to her. She could hardly hold still, let alone maintain a serious expression. In fact, she plopped her leg over top of Quinn's and grinned like a schoolgirl.

"You were attracted to me?" She had heard perfectly well, of course. "Even in my reindeer sweaters and bright skirts and Mary Janes?"

Quinn struggled not to smile right back at her - Rachel read it in the way her lips quivered, the way her eyes shone. "Yes. But I, I didn't know what it was, at the time. I mean, we were fifteen and it was the first time I'd ever felt that." The blossoming smile died. "I didn't…handle it well."

Rachel squeezed her fingers, softening. "I forgave you," she reminded her. "So tell me the rest. How did you get from not even knowing you were attracted to me to…where you were when you made that video?"

Quinn blew out a long breath, leaning her head up on her hand. "Slowly. Sometimes painfully." Her thumb stroked Rachel's lazily, from one side to the other. "Things really changed after I joined glee club."

"Because of my voice?" Rachel prompted expectantly, puffing up a bit.

Quinn half-smiled. "No, because you were strong, and brave, and honest. And you admitted when you were wrong. Everything I wished I was. Everything I was supposed to be. And I couldn't ignore it when you were standing right in front of me every day with that smile." Her arm dropped from the back of the couch to trace her fingers along Rachel's jaw. She grinned, pink, and Quinn's smile grew. "And without judgment or hatred for all the horrible things I said to you."

Rachel couldn't resist leaning in for just one little kiss, though in the end it was four and lingering.

"When did you know?" she murmured after, when Quinn's fingers had taken up residence in her hair, stroking it back from her face. She leaned willingly into the affection.

"There are varying degrees of knowing, Rachel," she said wryly, though her eyes were concentrated on thick brunette hair. "Knowing and accepting is something much different to knowing and denying it strenuously. But…I guess the day I knew I felt for you and didn't…feel the need to tell myself no was that day you convinced me not to turn Shelby and Puck in."

She gnawed at her bottom lip. "I guess it would be silly to ask why you didn't tell me. Considering what happened after that."

"Mm. I came close." Quinn's hand lowered to her lap, and Rachel pouted at its loss. "That was when it really hit me, when you told me Finn proposed. How much I felt." The question begged at Rachel's lips again, but Quinn was already answering with a breath - "But. You were happy."

As much as Rachel's heart begged to argue with the sentiment, to erase the years of anyone else but Quinn, she couldn't. Rachel had been happy with Finn, not necessarily, she'd realized with age, because they were a particularly good match. And as pure as they had wanted their intent to marry to seem, it had come with several sensitive strings attached; strings that, when tugged at, made them cling harder. But she loved him, nonetheless, and she had been happy.

Happy - Quinn had said it over and over. 'I just want you to be happy' and 'He really does make you so happy.' Rachel almost physically jumped up with realization.

"You were probing me. When you asked, if I was singing that song to Finn - and only Finn. You were trying to find out if there was any possible way that I - oh, Quinn."

Quinn grimaced almost violently. "Please don't look at me like that."

Rachel bit her pouting bottom lip in reprimand. "If I had known - "

"No, don't do that, either," she cut in, more gently. "It's _okay_." She lifted Rachel's hand to her lips.

Rachel felt most emphatically that it was _not_ okay, but it was difficult to argue when Quinn's gentle mouth was pressing against her skin, even in the most innocent of places. How had she missed something so obvious? Truthfully, she had thought the question a little odd at the time. And she had thought Quinn looked almost - pained asking it. But she'd simply assumed it was about Finn. In fact, she'd assumed much of Quinn's resistance to the wedding had to do with some lingering feeling for her first love, that in that moment, Quinn was placing their friendship before her love.

It had meant so much, and now, if possible, it meant more. Quinn had decided to love Rachel enough to watch, to support her marriage to someone else. It had almost gotten her killed.

Rachel pressed her free hand over her stomach.

"What's wrong?" Quinn shifted herself closer, fingers brushing over Rachel's cheek.

"N-nothing, nothing." She tilted to kiss Quinn's palm, centering herself with the contact. "So what - what made you stop - caring about me?"

"I never stopped caring about you," Quinn cooed, and traded the grasp of Rachel's hands for her knees. Her palms smoothed fire up the fabric of Rachel's slacks - why, oh, why hadn't she stopped to change? - all the way up her thighs to brace on her hip bones. There she stopped, pecked Rachel's lips, and murmured, "And I never will."

Rachel had never been so close to tackling someone before in her life. Yet - Quinn hadn't exactly answered her question. Rachel swallowed down her wilder impulses, but her voice still came a register lower when she managed to speak again.

"Well, I _mean_ …what made you…move on from me?"

"What makes you so sure I ever did?" she purred, batting those long gold lashes.

Rachel struggled to think. "Well. I wasn't _always_ with someone, but you still never said anything. And - you had other relationships yourself. Like with Ellen and Noah and Biff and Santana and that professor - and Joe!" she rattled off innocently.

If her expression was any indication, Quinn was not fooled. In fact, she chuckled, tracing lazy circles on Rachel's hips, and straightened up in preparation.

"Okay, let's start with this. I knew that I had feelings for you, but that didn't mean I…knew myself yet. You understand?" She cupped Rachel's chin briefly.

She considered. "If that means you didn't know if you were gay, bisexual, Rachel-sexual or one of the myriad other sexualities encompassed by the LGBTQ community, then yes, I understand."

Quinn grinned so brilliantly Rachel couldn't help but beam right back.

"Yes, that's what I mean. So. Joe…was sweet to me, but it wasn't a relationship. We never even kissed. Or went on a date, unless you count my physical therapy sessions. And - I know what you're going to say, I complained that he didn't kiss me; well, I thought my chair was going to make a relationship impossible for me and that was a bit of a bummer at the time." She pulled in a breath, thinking at the ceiling.

Rachel swallowed down the jitters in her stomach.

"After that, yes, I dated a professor, but it was _never_ serious. She was getting a divorce and I was still figuring things out, so - "

Rachel straightened with a gasp, betrayed. "Wait, she? Santana said you were dating a man!"

"That's what I told _her_ ," Quinn drawled, mouth curling into that attractive smirk.

She stared, half-aghast, half-laughing. "You lied? You lied to Santana? About dating a woman?"

"Would you tell Santana you were dating a woman when you weren't even sure how to define your sexuality?" she deadpanned.

Rachel giggled. "Probably not." A thought sobered her. "Though I don't think I would sleep with her, either…"

Quinn paused. "That - well, for one thing, it was not a relationship, either. It was one night that…I just wanted to know what it was like. I thought, it would help me figure things out."

She didn't - couldn't - judge Quinn for trying to understand herself, her impulses. She understood, even. And none of this was something she thought about at any length, really. Jealous as she might be now, they had both had prior relationships - Rachel had _just_ left one herself - and she accepted that. But Santana would always and forever be a sore spot, no matter how close they had once been. It stung to know that Quinn, too, had been lured by Santana's charms, her 'hotness.' Her voice came out a mere whisper.

"Why her?"

She sloped her shoulders in a shrug. "She's gay. We've known each other forever. She was…comfortable. In a way. And I knew if I played it off as just some college thing she wouldn't care, because. It will always be Brittany."

There was a simultaneous comfort and vengeance in knowing Santana had been chosen for her convenience, and Rachel couldn't help but smile. Particularly when Quinn kissed her nose and peered at her, expectantly.

Rachel was happy to oblige. "And Biff?"

Something dark and strange overcame Quinn's smile, and Rachel reflexively combed her fingers through blonde hair. When Quinn found words, they came low and quick, so much so that Rachel was sure she would have missed them if they hadn't been sitting so close together.

"I had just found out my father had cirrhosis and, I don't know, I guess I thought it would make him happy." She rushed on before Rachel could even make a sound of sympathy, "And, before Biff knew about my past, he felt like a fresh start. Then what happened with him and Puck made me realize there was only one person who could ever know about it and still love me."

Rachel shook her head instantly. "That's not true. I love you."

Her cheeks were on their way to pink, but unlike the last time Rachel uttered those words, Quinn didn't sit like stone. She lunged forward into Rachel's lips, arms scooping around her waist to draw her closer, and Rachel was more than happy to settle herself comfortably in Quinn's lap, legs wound around her hips. She burrowed her fingers fully into the wealth of silky blonde hair at her disposal, keeping Quinn's deliciousness tightly pressed to her mouth.

At least, until she felt a gentle tug at her own hair, drawing her neck back into a fine arc that Quinn traced with her tongue. Rachel's hips jerked, legs tucking tight around Quinn's back - but her moan turned swiftly into a whine when Quinn's mouth left her pulse point, leaving only tickling breaths of laughter in her wake.

"Don't stop," Rachel whimpered, kissing at Quinn's grinning cheeks and fine jaw.

"I'm sorry, I was trying to figure out what you were humming," she teased, and Rachel froze, staring at those sparkling, mischievous hazel eyes.

"I wasn't humming."

"Oh, yes, you were," Quinn drawled, stroking her fingertips pleasantly up and down Rachel's spine.

She shivered, but nonetheless - she felt pink. "I - well, what _was_ I humming?"

She struck a sober, doe-eyed expression, and already Rachel was giggling. "You don't want to know."

"Tell meee!" she whined, bouncing a bit.

Quinn laughed - and it was such a wonderful sound Rachel just had to kiss her, everywhere but her lips, so she wouldn't stop that delightful happiness. Though, she made sure to punctuate each kiss with two words, "Tell. Me."

"All right, all right, all right," Quinn chuckled out, and Rachel made special note of the fact that she was nearing Quinn's ear at the time before she sprang up with a grin. "Your Love is My Drug."

Rachel's eyes turned into saucers. "By Ke-dollarsign-ha?"

Success! Quinn was laughing again, and if possible, harder than before, and Rachel grinned even as she faceplanted into that luscious neck and - oh, Lord, Quinn was even softer against her cheek.

"I-I blame it on how late it is," she managed, breathing in the soapy smell leftover from Quinn's shower.

She rubbed her back, hugging her into her still giggling chest. "Poor baby, do we need to get you to bed?"

Rachel shook her head, straightening immediately. "No, I don't want to go. I don't want this to end."

Quinn smiled, stroking her hair away. "Who said you have to leave?" The idea sent a shudder of excitement straight down Rachel's spine, but then Quinn was saying, "Not that I'm suggesting anything other than sleeping, and more kisses. But. I want you to stay."

Rachel couldn't bring herself to be even a little bit disappointed by that offer. "I want to stay with you."

The already gorgeous smile blossomed into a blinding grin. "Good."

They shared a few more long, languorous kisses before either one of them made a move away from the couch, and then it was only because the candles started smelling rather suspicious. After they were safely blown out and stored to cool, Quinn grasped Rachel's hand again, this time leading her to the bedroom. Despite the stipulation that there would be no funny business, despite the fact that she had been in Quinn's bedroom before, her heart thumped.

"What about the food?" she recalled, even as Quinn left her standing by the bed and peered through her dresser drawers.

"I'll take care of it," she dismissed over her shoulder. Then, once she turned, presenting Rachel with a pastel pink silk nightgown, "I know you have an extensive evening routine and, while I may not have everything you need, I'd like you to be able to find and use whatever you can and…get comfortable here."

Rachel beamed as she tucked the nightgown to her chest. "Thank you."

Quinn pecked her lips and, with that, stepped back out to the loft. Rachel tried her very hardest not to squeal, and by the time she stepped into Quinn's shower, ready with a razor and shaving cream, she couldn't _help_ but squeal. And sing.

While she showered thoroughly and shaved her legs.

" _I'll never break your heart again  
Cause I, I will always love you  
Baby, I could never judge you  
I would take you as you are_"

After she brushed her teeth, while she plucked her eyebrows, removed her makeup, and applied moisturizer.

" _Never knew loving could hurt this good  
And it drives me wild  
Cause when you look like that  
I've never ever wanted to be so bad_"

And even after she dropped the nightgown over her head and brushed and conditioned her hair, she was singing.

" _Turn the lights down low and kiss me in the dark  
Cause when you're touching me, baby  
I see sparks  
You make my heart go_"

She didn't get any farther, however, because the moment she stepped back into the bedroom, she saw Quinn resting against the headboard in a midnight blue nightgown and - glasses - smiling at her. Rachel flushed to the tips of her ears.

"Hi. Sorry. I - "

"Not at all. I was enjoying the concert," Quinn soothed, eyeing her from behind thin black rims.

Rachel had known, peripherally, that Quinn must have glasses. After all, she wore contacts, and contacts weren't safe to wear at all times. Still, she had been unprepared for the reality of Quinn's golden eyes peering at her like this. She liked it. A lot. But perhaps it was the bed, making her eyes look this way. Beckoning. Come hither.

Or perhaps Quinn was doing it on purpose, because after that moment of silence, she pulled back the covers and patted the empty space next to her. Rachel smiled as she sprang forward and snuggled down into the plush sheets, giggling as Quinn tucked the blankets up around her shoulders and scooted down next to her. Once they were settled in against the pillows, Quinn set her glasses back on the nightstand and flipped the lights off.

Rachel bit her lip in the sudden quiet. "Quinn?"

"I'm here," she murmured, and Rachel felt movement - she sought the hand looking for hers, grasped it firmly between them.

With a breath and a smile, Rachel closed her eyes. "Thank you for being so open with me tonight. I know it's not always easy for you."

"I don't want any secrets between us," came the whispered answer.

Rachel grinned, for what felt like the thousandth time tonight. "You know, I don't think we've ever slept together before."

Quinn's husky chuckle tickled her ears. "Now that's not entirely true. The night you had that party, junior year, you declared me your pillow and snored on my shoulder for two hours before Kurt liberated me."

"Hmph. I do not snore."

"It was cute."

Rachel wriggled with a smile. "Well. You know, I believe I was promised more kisses."

"So you were. My apologies."

Rachel felt more than saw Quinn move closer, felt her lift her arm to kiss from her hand up to her shoulder to her neck to her jaw to her mouth. And then they were kissing until exhaustion overtook the both of them - and Rachel had never been happier.


	33. Differences

**Differences**

Quinn hadn't slept so deeply in such a long time that, for the first time in years, she even dozed past her usual wakeup hour and well into the morning. A little past ten am, she discovered when her eyes refused to rest any longer. And, surprisingly enough, Rachel was still fast asleep as well, snuggled tightly against Quinn's side, though, it was clear from the state of their blankets that while Quinn had rested like a log, Rachel had been wildly active. And if it hadn't been obvious from that, Rachel's hair certainly told quite a story. Quinn grinned as she wound her fingers into the strands, gently combing.

Never in a million years had Quinn allowed herself to envision this outcome, and yet here she was. Here _they_ were, laying together, snug in the warmth kisses and cuddling had created. Quinn really ought to be used to life's twists and turns by now, she knew, but in ten years, Rachel never failed to surprise her, to flip her world upside down. She couldn't resist kissing that gorgeous face burrowed against her shoulder, just one kiss to her forehead. Then, admiring the way those long lashes painted Rachel's cheeks, she simply had to kiss her cheek. And then, of course, stroking the length of the arm slung across her waist and watching the way Rachel's nose wrinkled when she tickled the fine hairs, she simply had to kiss that nose, too.

"Are you trying to wake me up?" Rachel mumbled then, and Quinn bit into her own smile.

"No. Sorry."

Her full lips stretched into a smile. "Don't be sorry. I like your mouth." Before Quinn could even laugh, Rachel's eyes snapped open in pure mortification. "I mean, what I _meant_ to say is that I like your kisses, not your - I mean, not that I _don't_ like your - "

"It's okay," Quinn managed to giggle out, squeezing Rachel into her side. "I like your mouth and your kisses, too." She pecked her lips, for emphasis, and left Rachel grinning again.

"Mmm. What time is it?"

"10:30."

Rachel groaned into Quinn's shoulder. "Oh, God. I haven't slept that late since...I can't even remember when."

"Me, either, but. We were up late."

"Yeah…" Rachel smiled up at her lazily then, scanning her face.

Under normal circumstances, when she woke for the morning, Quinn was just that - awake. Whether she wanted or needed more sleep, it didn't particularly matter. She was awake and that meant she was up, working out, showering, and so on, not lying around uselessly. She couldn't remember ever waking up like this, feeling no impetus or desire to rise. Feeling utterly blissful, staring back at big, bright brown eyes, feeling her steady hot breaths, stroking her fingertips along the warm skin of her arm, her shoulder, her neck, up into her silky hair. Quinn could quite happily lay like this all day, she was certain, maybe even longer, and Rachel wasn't long to echo her sentiments with a kiss to her jaw.

"Mm, this is nice," she groaned pleasantly, stretching against Quinn in such a way that she was immediately aware of the length of her body, and all she could think to respond for the moment was:

"Mhm."

"I don't want to get up ever," Rachel giggled then, and Quinn twisted a bit to better face her.

"Well, then let's not. There's this cafe about two blocks down that delivers, we can order some bagels and coffee and, uh, I'll get my laptop and we can pop in Funny Girl or find some Law and Order episodes online," she teased, kissing Rachel's wrinkled nose, "and we'll just veg out."

Rachel beamed back at her, eyes sparkling so that Quinn thought she might've needed sunglasses had it not been for that hint of hesitance. "That sounds amazing, but. I really wanted to finish moving my stuff this weekend, I don't want to spend yet another week living half out of my studio and half out of the apartment. It's really not fair to Jesse, or me, for that matter."

"I understand," Quinn murmured, and she did. Disappointing as it was, she couldn't fault Rachel for wanting to move on with her life, especially when it meant there would simply be more weekends for cuddling and Law and Order. "How about this, then? You get around, and I will order us that breakfast, and then I will drive you back to the apartment. Or I can call a cab for you if you're worried he might see me."

"You have a car?"

"Yeah, I usually just walk everywhere, but if I have to travel further, I prefer not to pay the cab fare."

Rachel lit up all over again, bouncing up onto her elbow. "That's what I always say! Kurt and Jesse and Santana are always, 'What's the point, you pay insurance on something you barely use,' ugh! They'll see, when they have to go somewhere they can't get to by train or plane and wind up paying hundreds of dollars to get there! Plus, it's useful for times like this! I obviously can't just carry all my boxes to my new place and the cab fare would be ridiculous between waiting for me to load and unload and the actual travel back and forth."

Quinn couldn't quite help but grin up at her. "Why didn't you use a mover?"

"Well, it's free this way, other than gas, obviously, and you know, I've never really lived by myself. I guess I just wanted the whole experience of it. Besides, it's not as though I have that much to move. I'm not taking any of the furniture or stuff we bought together. Which reminds me, I need to go mattress shopping sometime this week. We won't be doing any choreography just yet, but when we do, I am going to need something better than an air mattress or I'll be all out of whack. Hey, where'd you get this one?" She paused, flushing. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

She shook her head quickly, trying to rid herself of her smile. "It's nothing, I think I got it at Keetsa, it's a Casper."

"Keetsa, Casper, got it." Her grin wavered. "Seriously, what's that look for?"

"It's nothing. You're just adorable, that's all."

Rachel brightened so she started to physically wriggle, and Quinn could no longer resist drawing her down for a lingering kiss to those smiling lips.

"Mmm. Why don't you drive?"

Quinn chuckled. "What?"

"I mean, you can help me move. You can be my driver. Only if you want to. It's just, I really don't want to be without you today." Rachel spun her fingers shyly in Quinn's hair, batting her lashes, and she couldn't have said no if she'd wanted to.

"I don't want to be without you, either," she agreed softly. "But we should probably get started right now."

"Why?"

"Because it's now going on noon."

"Oh, geez!"

Laughing, Rachel tossed back the covers and extricated herself from Quinn's side, leaving her chilled.

"Do you mind if I use the restroom first?" she prompted.

Quinn pushed herself up, propping her glasses on the bridge of her nose as she opened her phone. "No, not at all, I'm just going to order the food."

Half a second must've passed before she heard a squeak and Rachel called, "How could you not tell me my hair looks like a bush!"

Quinn couldn't restrain a laugh. "It's cute!"

"I'm never trusting you again!"

It didn't lessen her mirth in the least, especially when she then heard a very audible, "HMPH!" Still, as miffed as Rachel may have been, it didn't take long for the shower to turn on and the singing to start. This morning, Quinn was treated to a performance of Suspension by Mae before she swung on a robe and set out to the kitchen with a notepad in hand to prepare a new grocery list. She could hardly blame Rachel for being so musical; it was Rachel, after all, and even Quinn found herself humming as she scanned through her refrigerator. Her little song was interrupted by a throat being cleared.

Rachel stood smiling in a bathrobe, one eyebrow adorably quirked. "And what was that _you_ were humming?"

Quinn smirked mischievously, propping her elbows up on the island to lean closer. "You'll never know."

"Humph!" she returned, but leaned up on the counter for a kiss anyway. "Would it be all right if I borrowed clothes for today? I promise I will have them washed and returned to you as soon as I have a washer and dryer." She considered, then added, "Laundromats kind of freak me out."

She chuckled, tucking a wild strand of newly dried hair behind Rachel's ear. "Of course, it's fine."

Despite the permission, Rachel lingered, shining at her. "You know...I really like your glasses."

"I'm glad, since I require them to see," she teased, delighting in Rachel's little huff and swat to her arm.

"You know what I mean. They're very becoming."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Do you really, though?" Rachel tilted her head adorably. "I mean, require them to see. Like, if you weren't wearing them or your contacts, would I just be a big blur?" Realizing, she flushed. "I'm sorry if that's a personal question, it's just that was never really clear - "

"It's fine," Quinn laughed. "I'm a little nearsighted, so how blurry you are would depend on where you're standing. Right here? I can see you perfectly."

Rachel beamed happily, almost wriggling again before a knock interrupted their flirtations.

"That was quick," Quinn commented, but straightened nonetheless to grab her wallet.

She opened the door only a crack, but it didn't matter. Brittany grinned at her.

"Hi, Quinn!"

And she barreled inside, followed by Santana, then Kurt, and then Blaine, who smiled briefly. Quinn stood staring at the empty hall for a moment, muttering, "Come on in."

"Mercedes told us you were back this morning," Brittany was chattering, "and we all decided to throw you a surprise welcome home party - oh."

Rachel stood halfway to the bedroom, hopelessly hugging the bathrobe to herself. Quinn was quick to fill the empty space beside her while the foursome made themselves at home. She saw now that Brittany was carrying a large store-bought cake, Santana a store-bought snack tray, and Kurt and Blaine beverages and cups. An impromptu surprise party if she ever saw one, but she couldn't bring herself to criticize when Brittany was clearly so excited. At least, she had been, until she spied Rachel.

Blaine broke the silence first, smiling. "Rachel, good, you're here, we were calling to see if you wanted to come, too, but I guess you beat us to it."

Rachel smiled politely, but before she could get a word out, Santana barked, "She didn't beat us to it, she knew before we did. You told her first, didn't you?"

"Yes," Quinn said, firmly. Rachel's arm curled around her elbow, tucking herself closer.

"Were you planning on ever telling us?" Santana questioned sharply.

"I haven't had much of a chance to plan for _anything_ , Santana - "

"Except to sleep with an engaged woman," Kurt cut in, his expression colored with disgust.

Rachel seemed to regain her voice with his. "I'm not engaged. Not anymore."

"When the hell did that happen?"

"A few weeks ago."

Kurt scowled, jaw tight. "So you just weren't going to tell anyone, either?"

"Did you guys sleep together?" Brittany popped in, staring between the two of them.

"Of course they did," Santana scoffed, almost at the same time as Quinn said, "That's none of your business."

Rachel sighed against Quinn's shoulder and muttered, "I'm going to go get dressed, are you going to be okay?"

Quinn nodded, but before Rachel could retreat, Santana snarled, "I knew you had a thing for her, Quinn, but this? Are you stupid? She's straight!"

"Exactly," Kurt agreed, "And so are you, and she was _just_ about to marry someone else, and what do you mean she had a thing for her? They hate each other!"

Quinn only rolled her eyes, but Rachel audibly groaned, charging back toward them. "Would you people stop saying that? You don't know anything about it, or else you'd know that Quinn and I have never hated each other. Did-did we argue over Finn? Yes. Did that mean we hated each other? No! We are friends, and now we-we're even more, and that's the last anyone needs to hear about it! And as for our sexualities, that's really none of your business, either!"

"So I suppose that means you breaking up with Jesse is none of our business, too?" Kurt sniped.

"Yes, if you must know! Since when has my life been any of your business?"

"It was before Quinn was arrested!"

"Yeah, well, things change," Rachel said, and Quinn had never heard her so stony.

"No, things don't change, you just got mad," Kurt retorted.

"Which, by the way, what right do you honestly have to be mad? What business was it of _yours_ if we believed her or not?" Santana stepped in. "The only person I see here who should have had something to say about that is Quinn, and she forgave us, so, like, get over it."

"This is gross," Brittany said.

Blaine was busying himself filling cups with ice.

"You act as if it was so obvious she was innocent," Kurt went on. "As if we didn't see her literally _soaked_ with blood from head to toe!"

Quinn's stomach lurched.

"As if we didn't watch her get perp-walked out of your rehearsal dinner by the cops!"

It had stuck to her so. She felt it even after her fifth shower at the jail, after scrubbing her skin red. Matting her hair down, her clothes clinging to her. Warm and sticky.

"As if there was anyone else who could've bashed his head in who we could've possibly known about!"

He hadn't even looked human anymore.

Quinn distantly heard Rachel fume. "You assumed - "

"We didn't assume, we literally watched the news, we saw the cops say, we got her, she did it, there's no evidence that anyone else did it!"

She hadn't even recognized him at first, when she pushed herself up from the puddle of red, when she looked at the dead thing it was coming from.

"No evidence doesn't mean shit, it's innocent until proven guilty, not the other way around, and don't tell me that the news told you she's 'flipped back and forth from the Dark Side more than Severus Snape' or-or that she'd have won 'Most Likely to Commit Murder' in our yearbook, _or_ \- "

Peripherally, she saw Rachel wheel toward Santana. It had been his eyes, wide open, staring, that clued her panicked brain in at the time.

" - that 'Quinn makes Quinn cray-cray!' It's _bullshit_! These are not things that friends say!"

"Oh, so friends just _blindly_ believe whatever they're told?" Kurt sneered.

"Quinn didn't have to tell me that she was innocent, I _knew_ she was!"

"Yeah, you're definitely impartial, ditching your fiance to jump into bed with her as soon as she's out of jail."

All thought had left her. It didn't even occur to her that his murderer might still be in the house. It didn't even occur to her that he'd been murdered.

"I'm not saying I'm impartial, but you know what, a friend isn't impartial! A friend at least tries to believe the best of that person, even-even if it's just to think, he must've tried to hurt her or-or-or - "

"What does motivation matter when she murdered somebody?"

" _She didn't murder anyone_!"

Even the back of Rachel's neck was bright red. Quinn had just curled her knees to her chest and sat there next to him, leaning back against her mother's blood spattered kitchen cupboards. After she finished screaming. After she could breathe again. It stunk. He stunk.

"I know that now, I'm just saying that if she had, then - "

"Then what? You wouldn't care to know if it was self-defense? Or you wouldn't believe it was?"

Kurt puffed. "Can you honestly blame us for thinking she was a little less than innocent? Whether you want to remember it or not, this is the woman who cheated on Finn with his best friend and then lied to him, made him work off _her_ medical bills, cheated _again_ with Finn this time, tried to _steal a baby_ , and, oh, yeah, _bullied you_ until she got knocked off her high horse!"

She'd dragged herself through the muck to the door. The fresh air had done her good, kept the nausea at bay. And she'd remembered where she was supposed to be. She'd remembered Rachel.

"She's also the woman who brought us from six members to nine, who got us a page in the yearbook, who chose us over the Cheerios, who supported my original song idea when no one else would, which, if you remember, got us to _Nationals_ , who supported _you_ , Santana, even though she was going through so much already when you were coming out, who brought Santana and Brittany and Mercedes _back to us_ , who-who helped Sam and his family and who went to the homeless shelter before any of the rest of us dug our heads out of our asses, who made me prom queen, even though she wanted it so badly, who - "

"Because a few good deeds totally erases everything else she's ever done!"

"No, but that's not the point!"

"Enlighten me!"

"The point is that she is _human_ , and she is our friend, and she deserves the benefit of the doubt. She's not perfect, but neither are you, as much as you'd like to think that you are. And you know what? If the roles were reversed, she would not treat you with as much hate and scorn as you have shown her. She would believe in you."

"Yeah, well, I love my dad, who the hell does she love aside from herself?"

"GET OUT!"

"Rach - "

"LEAVE!"

"Are you seriously doing this, over _this_? Quinn forgave us!"

"I don't! I don't forgive you, you know why? Because you hate the woman I love and that is something I will _never_ be able to reconcile."

Quinn stumbled toward the chaise lounge.

"Quinn, are you okay?" Santana said hoarsely.

She waved a hand as she sat, dropping her head between her knees. It was hardly a moment before she felt Rachel's hands smoothing over her back and her hair, saw her knees against the carpet in front of her.

"Quinn?" she cooed, voice thick with concern, wavering from her prior volume. "What happened, are you all right, do I need to call - "

Quinn gripped with clammy hands at Rachel's arms, halting her speech. "I'm okay. I just need a minute."

"I'll get her some water," Brittany piped up.

Farther away, Santana added, "I'm going to get a wet cloth for her."

"Do you need a bucket?" Blaine asked uncertainly.

Quinn shook her head, and Rachel answered for her, "No, not yet."

She heard steps flurrying, felt Rachel petting her. One hand left.

"Quinn, can you drink?"

Quinn nodded, straightening slowly to sip from the cup in Rachel's hands. Her cotton-filled mouth begged for more, but Rachel was cautious, allowing her only a bit at a time. The weight on the cushion behind her shifted before she felt Santana gently pushing her hair aside to place the cool cloth on the back of her neck. Reality seeped back into her vision, bringing Rachel before her, stroking her hair back and coaxing her with the cup, Brittany just beyond her, staring in concern. A glance behind found Santana's brow furrowed worriedly, and beyond her, Blaine, hands stuffed in his pockets. He smiled hesitantly at her.

Kurt was still by the island, staring into the void.

Quinn found her voice. "Kurt, I think you should leave."

"I agree," Santana said firmly, standing defensively now. "You've done enough."

"As if you weren't on my side," he said weakly.

"As a matter of fact, I'm not. I may have taken things at face value, but for fuck's sake, she's not Satan. You don't like her? Fine. But don't expect the rest of us to be okay with you trash talking her."

"We came here to make her feel welcome," Brittany added softly. "Because we were wrong. Not her."

Kurt stomped out without another word. Blaine sucked in a breath.

"I gotta - "

"It's okay, Blaine," Quinn assured, and he smiled slightly.

"Welcome back."

As he stepped out, another man entered, tentatively holding up a bag and two coffee cups.

"Uh...delivery for Fabray?"

Quinn dug at her robe pocket for the wallet she'd stuffed away, but Santana was closer and quicker. In the silence that followed the door shutting for hopefully the last time, Rachel moved up next to Quinn, carefully dabbing the cloth over her neck and forehead. Brittany sat on the coffee table across from them, considering while Santana fiddled about in the kitchen. Quinn was enjoying Rachel's touch, fingers in her hair, far too much to bother looking to see what she was doing.

"Um. When I said…'Quinn makes Quinn cray-cray,'" Santana said slowly, stepping around behind Brittany now. "I just meant that...you drive yourself nuts, I wasn't, like, agreeing with Kurt or those guys."

Quinn glanced up at her. Santana had hardly ever looked so sheepish, she thought, lip tucked, hands flopping about. Brittany reached back to take one of them, helpfully. Rachel didn't look particularly impressed, though for the moment, her energy seemed to be entirely focused on Quinn. She swallowed.

"Okay."

"It's just I didn't realize how I sounded until I was just listening to him talk just now. It's, it's not that I think you're a murderer or that I still, like, hold you accountable for all that high school shit. If I did, I'd be a pretty...pretty huge hypocrite. I just didn't know what else to think, you know? I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm...really sorry, for how shitty I was."

Quinn had definitely never heard Santana apologize before, and actually seem contrite.

"Thank you, Santana. That really means a lot," she said softly.

Santana nodded, once. "Do you guys want your coffees now, or…?"

"No, I...uh, we need to get dressed, do you mind waiting?"

"Of course not," Brittany said, reaching to squeeze her knee.

"Take your time," Santana agreed.

Rachel pressed her lips against Quinn's ear. "Can you stand?"

She nodded, but Rachel still looped her arm around Quinn's waist as they rose and all the way to the bedroom. Quinn stepped around then to look at Rachel, her big worried eyes, her pouting lip. The warmth of this morning, waking up next to her - it had seemed so far away until this moment.

"You really do love me," she heard herself breathe.

Rachel smiled, bemused, and her fingers tangled in Quinn's hair again. "Of course I love you. Didn't you believe me before?"

"No, I-I did. I just." She wet her bottom lip. "He's been your best friend since...almost as long as I can remember, and you-you just gave him up for me, you realize that, don't you?"

"I didn't give him up, any more than I gave Jesse up. I broke up with him due to irreconcilable differences."

The weight in the pit of Quinn's stomach couldn't keep her from laughing, even less when Rachel beamed up at her.

"Listen, I...miss him, I do," Rachel continued, softly, "but I meant what I said. I can't be best friends with someone who thinks the worst of you." She blew out a breath. "Now, are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

Rachel scanned her with a suspicious brow. "You always say that and I never believe you."

"I promise I'm okay," she chuckled out. "I just - I don't want to think about it, I just want to get dressed and eat this stupid cake and help you get moved."

"Quinn, we don't have to do that today if - "

"I want to." When Rachel only eyed her unhappily, Quinn took her hands up. "Please, I hate being treated like an invalid and I'm honestly _fine_ now."

Rachel sighed. "All right, fine. But I'm going to be right out here while you change and if you even wobble or-or trip or - "

"Then we will stay here and watch Law and Order," she appeased gently, kissing Rachel's knuckles.

As Quinn anticipated, Rachel couldn't keep from smiling, especially after a kiss on the lips. True to her word, Rachel was waiting directly outside the door when Quinn emerged in full makeup, with contacts, in a cardigan and broom skirt. They traded another kiss and places while Rachel changed into Quinn's sweater and skirt, and then finally, rejoined Santana and Brittany in the living space.

Quinn was certain it was going to be beyond uncomfortable, but despite their earlier comments, the two were entirely silent on the topic of Rachel's unexpected presence from thereon. Instead, they filled the air with conversation about how sorry they were that everything was so last-minute, how Brittany's dance studio was expanding to a larger location, how Santana was being promoted from assistant to booking agent. Rachel even opened up to their presence enough to share the news of her new role. Fortunately, they were also completely accommodating when Quinn said they had plans to keep, and she thought it might even be nice to have Santana walking on eggshells for a while.

The day was, in fact, turning out to be quite nice. Rachel sang along to the radio as they cruised and stopped and stopped and cruised down the streets of New York to her old apartment, tickled at Quinn's side playfully when they were at a stoplight. She filled every moment with her smiles, and Quinn forgot about every dark thing in the world in all her brightness.

At least, until she was waiting in the car for Rachel to come down with the first load of boxes and Jesse St. James came wobbling down the street - and saw her.


End file.
